Second Chances
by manic-intent
Summary: Young Zaknafein's perspective as the years progress interspersed with the 'present' life of Jarlaxle in Toril, a few thousand years in the future, when technology has begn to make its presence known. Updated-*Finished*.
1. Translator's Note

Disclaimer:

I was bored, so I wrote.  It's been a very long time since I last touched a keyboard for this sort of thing, so I was a bit out of practice when I first attempted.  It's probably obvious to those who have read Arthur Golden's Memoirs of the Geisha that the tone of this thing seems horribly familiar.  Don't worry; I won't give it a stupid ending.  Salvatore already has.  

Oops.  Salvatore insult #1 for the day.  Please ignore.  Insert Comment Elsewhere.

Anyway, I don't own the Forgotten Realms, TSR, the dark elves (damn), Zaknafein, duergar, Svirfneblin, Menzoberranzan and all that.  Neither do I particularly care.  

I seem to be breaking the law recently.  Just realized that Wizards of the Coast does not allow the writing of fanfiction.  Unfortunately, since I can see now way to profit from this (heh), it's non-profit and written solely for my own amusement.  

Hopefully you'd enjoy it too.  Have a nice day.

--

Translator's Note

I remember when the Underdark was first deemed 'civilized' enough for us of the surface to travel in freely.  It struck me then, as the announcement was made via broad-speakers – a technological wonder currently available in every home, but then, only in every city center and in privileged areas – how incongruous the word 'civilized' was.  The Underdark, or parts of it, has been civilized far longer than my culture has been – and the intrusion of the few first tentative Rails looked like a puppy advancing on a lion.  Weyr-cats, of course, are now as commonly seen as the other humanoid species such as the dwarves and gnomes, and are also contributing to the great, inexhaustible machine that is technological progress.

Since we have an enhanced ability at dark vision, we were one of the pioneer visitors to the opened Underdark, mostly involved in the furtherance of the Rail and trade, and I – with my fascination with the elves, a race sadly nearly extinct in most of Toril – eagerly joined them.  I did not expect the legendary dark elves to frequent the great underground cities 'industrialized' by Rail – for these were mostly newer, modernized Duergar and Svirfneblin cities.  Imagine my surprise when, in the Duergar city of B'karlaq, our first stop, I saw them – three of them, to be precise!

It was like suddenly finding treasure where one had least expected to see it – I cannot describe the mix of emotions that blossomed in me, a heady rush not unlike what a kit feels when it opens its eyes for the first time near its mother and sees the world.  It has been decades since then, and my ruff is traced with silver – and though this may sound trite, that moment was one of those indelible frozen frames that stay with one all their lives.  

The first thing I noticed about them was their stunning, shadow-knit grace – they were absolutely comfortable in the darkness of the station, though every fiber of them seemed alert.  Not in the clumsy way of awareness that one has when one is surprised, but in the quietly restrained, dangerous manner of the experienced hunter.  That was what they were, anyway – hunters, of more things than one.  The red eyes of infravision fit them in such a context, where it merely seemed bizarre on other creatures.  

They wore exquisite, elaborate armor of a design that seemed both antique and modern: black enameled adamantite with menacing-looking silvery designs, yet with discreet devices added on, such as a tracker.  The most obvious indication of modernity was in their armaments – all three dark elves wore sheathed swords at the hip, but at the other hip was a holstered revolver.  Unlike the other types of elves, who firmly foreswore anything to do with most technology, let alone things to do with gunpowder, the dark elves seemed to be using it for their own deadly purposes.  

This was another aspect that set them apart from the surface elves, who drew more and more into tradition such that it, in the end, was one of the shepherds that herded them farther and farther into their ancestral grounds that some believe them lost for good.  The dark elves always know exactly where they live – in the present.  They are like cats in that respect – adaptable.

I must admit I expected them to do something suitably malicious and violent.  Blowing up the station, perhaps, or randomly killing an innocent.  One develops such stereotypes as one reads, but one must always remember that history, though it may seem to follow certain templates, is ever-changing, and never fully akin to its previous cycle.  These three – hunters – just watched, standing slightly aloof from the gawking crowd.  Occasionally, their fingers danced in their hand-code, something that, like their language, I had studied and learned.  I pride myself on having learnt most of the elven speeches save the High Tongue, and most of the dark elven words from dark elves whom had migrated to the surface.  My technique in the hand-code, my previous teacher had told me, was so ungainly that she could nearly feel its passage tearing through the air, but she did concede that it was understandable.

So I did something that eventually culminated in this work – I signaled a greeting to them, feeling as self-conscious as a kit when it performs its first skill-display.  They seemed startled in that their eyebrows rose in concert – a movement that would appear absurd in description – then one smiled, not a kind smile, and mentioned something to his companions, who chuckled in the noiseless fashion of the drow.  

Swept away by the crowd to briefings, I was kept incredibly busy for a time, having to do my share of speeches and presentations, then one day my assistant brought me a note written in an elegant hand.  The language was unmistakably drow. 

I will not flatter myself by stating that I understood it when first glancing at it – the dark elven tongue is full of subtleties and double-meanings that a non-dark elf would find extremely confusing.  After painstakingly translating the message and thinking about the meaning, I could garner no less than five different ones, two of which were quite sardonically condescending.  I have no doubt that the message could have meant more than one of my deduced meanings, or none at all, but I decided to take it at its face value – an invitation to come to a certain estate in the city at a certain time.

I acceded, and met one of the most complex individuals in my varied life – Jarlaxle of the notorious Bregan D'aerthe.  The dark elf had been alive for a remarkable amount of time, from all counts, since he and his mercenary band were mentioned – not very favorably - in the memoirs of Drizzt, one of the most famous drow who had come to the surface, and Drizzt himself had walked Toril many centuries before now.  Drizzt's memoirs had made Jarlaxle and Bregan D'aerthe famous, so it behooves me not to weary the reader by describing them in detail.

Drizzt had warned of the mercenary's charm, but had not adequately described the medium of it, which was Jarlaxle's entire being.  He could make you feel like the center of the world, or an insignificant speck, merely by the expression on his face, still mostly elf-perfect, time's ravages only a certain cast to his eyes – one always covered with a ruby-red eye patch – some scars and the set of his face.  Age was most telling in his movements, slow and dignified, not quick and impetuous as a young drow.  His only comment about his longevity was an expression of belief that dark elves were far too stubborn (in actually, a more vulgar word was used) to die of natural causes.  

And he winked.

After a while I became a weekly visitor, enjoying the long, exhausting conversations, with him mainly cross-examining me on technology and life on the Surface, and I tentatively trying to pry out details of dark elven life, something he was remarkably close on if you enquired on details before The Summoning.  He was never so crass as to sharply change the subject, but would do so subtly, in such ways that you would not be able to press on without seeming unspeakably rude. 

When the Company announced that they were to open Rails deeper into the Underdark – well, the requests for a visit increased.  Then, the messages were passed on via the NetWork – a now-outmoded communications device that was half-magic and half-technology.  Now, especially whenever I was very busy, he would send some long-suffering Bregan D'aerthe mercenary to tell me personally, knowing, manipulator that he was, that I couldn't actually out-argue a dark elf. 

Eventually he broached the point – he'd heard that the Rails were opening into the Old Cities, and wanted to know if that was true – if so, when, how, what, who and a barrage of questions that followed tightly on the heels of my answers.  On anyone else I may have felt annoyed at being pressured, but one should just speak once with Jarlaxle and one would understand.  The occasional solicitous enquiries about whether he was tiring me with the questions – again, phrased in such a way that I could not say 'yes' outright, the look of absolute concentration on the information given… and a host of other subtleties, most of them probably feigned.  Or perhaps not – with Jarlaxle, one would never know.  He can be more inscrutable than one of my kind.

The Old City in particular that he was interested in was, unsurprisingly, Menzoberranzan.  

Perhaps I should at this point explain the term – 'Old Cities' need not refer to dark elven cities, or even Underdark ones – they just meant any city which have some historical value and which are now abandoned, or run-down.  Constructing Rails to such cities other than to wealthy, flourishing ones in some ways is a waste of resources, especially if what drove the city to ruin still existed in it – but some of the Old Cities have garnered such interest in them that many would pay to have it preserved, cleaned up and maintained, and would pay many times a normal fare (already considerable, for a visit to the Underdark in those days) to travel to see it.

As it were Jarlaxle needn't have worried, if he had – Menzoberranzan was one of those to be built to.  The city had been one of those that had emptied after the fall of the Spider Queen into oblivion, and maps to it were sketchy, at least a century old and dwarven – which meant that Menzoberranzan was simply marked as a considerably general area with the runes for 'danger' and 'drow', and with only the mines, caves, waterholes and such of a distance away marked in any detail.  Seeing an opportunity then – now I suspect him of manipulating me to this point – I made him an offer on the spot to help the Company with this task of locating the Old City.  

I suppose I should not have been surprised when he agreed, and should have been even less surprised when I heard of his terms to the Company later through my assistant when the director in B'karlaq made a formal contract with him and Bregan D'aerthe.  They were definitely considerable, and also consisted of a share in the Company, but how could we refuse? Menzoberranzan was not the only Old City Jarlaxle and Bregan D'aerthe were familiar with, after all, and Jarlaxle hinted that he might be able to negotiate the construction of stations in existing dark elven cities.

After many years of hard work, the trains were run to Menzoberranzan and other Old Cities for the first time – though of course the very first trains were to Old Duergar Cities.  Surface dwarves and Duergar had somehow reconciled over the years, and their surface cousins were as curious about such cities as the Duergar themselves – dwarves being highly preoccupied with tradition and history.  _Their_ tradition and _their_ history, to be precise, but I digress.  Since dwarves are a major shareholder and the main driving force in invention and the Rail, their say had much more weight than any other.

When we did get to magnificent Menzoberranzan, I glanced at Jarlaxle once out of curiosity, hoping for some unguarded moment where I could finally glean some knowledge of his feelings for his birth City, but I was disappointed.  He seemed as casual as ever as he strolled out of the carriage and looked at the forbidding emptiness of the construction around him – then his wrist flicked forward and twisted elaborately, as if in a dance.  A squeal in the darkness, and the sound of something dropping to the ground, then he turned on his heel and went back into the carriage.

Later we found that the dead creature was a Creeper – something that Nature had chosen to be mostly invisible to infravision and dark vision, human-sized and vicious.  How Jarlaxle had seen it was beyond me, but it reminded me again not to cross him.  Centuries had not blunted his skill, though later he purposely made a transparent attempt at modesty, saying that he had intended to hit its heart instead of right between its eyes. 

Jarlaxle needn't have killed the creature – we would have driven it out later as the crew cleaned up the city, so it made me wonder if the gesture had some hidden meaning.  I did not want to sound intrusive by asking, so I let it go.

It could have had some relation to what happened the next time I saw him, when the preparations of the City had gone far underway, even to the extent of relighting what the Menzoberranyr called Narbondel.  We were speaking about something entirely trivial in one of the newly-prepared guest houses, and then as we were about to bid each other goodbye, he gave me a heavy, box-like package wrapped in plain cotton, bowed elaborately, and left.

Inside I found the chronicle that I have attempted to the best of my ability to reproduce in Common.  It looked plain compared to some of the other dark elven books that I had seen – written in some indelible white ink on paper-thin black plates, probably some sort of common crystal, not unusual for the dark elves, bound in steel.  The script was cramped and rough compared to Jarlaxle's elegant style, and was in places furiously scratched out, but more or less intact.  

When dated properly, I realized that it was much older than it appeared to be, having been in progress centuries before Drizzt himself was born.  It was a piece of history I found all the more intriguing when I realized that the author had not left a name – in fact, he was vague with names, preferring the use of pseudonyms to refer to things.  I had to read the book several times before I narrowed down the possibilities to one.

The next time I saw Jarlaxle, I asked him if the book had been written by Zaknafein Do'Urden, Drizzt's sire.  Jarlaxle's reply was, as usual, frustratingly enigmatic and did not answer the question – instead, raising questions of its own with its characteristic dark elven multiple meanings:

"He was never anything to anyone."

[ S'kaerik, Dancer of the Eclipse

Professor of Paranormal Natural History

University of Baldur's Gate ]


	2. Part 1: Mother

[Further Explanations: To understand the structure of this work, one must forgive me for having reorganized the book into sections.  It was originally written in a continuous manner with no regard for dates – events separated by short spaces or in some circumstances, none at all, at times even written in shorthand, something that I have, with help, constructed into fuller sentences.  It can be deduced, however, that events before a certain point in time were recounted, and after that, the journal described events more or less immediately after they occurred.  I have left the pseudonyms as they are written – it will not become me to force my opinion of the author's identity on the reader.  I have left some words in the dark elven language where they would help with the reader's understanding.]

Part 1

Mother

The first thing I remember in life is my mother's grace.  I remember watching her, in our comfortable though not luxurious apartment in Manyfolk, practicing – no, _performing_ the Dance.  Early childhood exposure to the Dance may account for why I live by it now, or perhaps not, but anyone who saw her would be fascinated by the fluid elegance by which she attacked and defended herself from some unseen enemy.  I know now that her technique was not flawless by far, but then, her Dance appeared to be the most beautiful and dangerous thing in the world.

She dual-wielded a saber and a flamberge which she used to weave the air into barriers of steel, here a neat kick, there an economical slash, a flash of gray metal, all done in silence save for the sound of her breathing.  Mother always believed that insults and shouts in battle only wasted energy, and that silence and expression were all that was needed, in any case, if intimidation was called for.  In all, she was a killer, something contrasting with the connotations of her job description: a guard at the ironically named _L'Phindar's Inthigg_, The Monster's Treaty, a relatively popular shop in Manyfolk that sold unusual pets.  Sometimes it was not the _phindaren _she guarded, but the proprietor, for in rare occasions a _phindar_ may escape and endanger the place.  

What she earned was enough to support the two of us such that I didn't have to join the ranks of begging children in the street.  There was never any mention of my father, and for years I went on believing that he never existed at all.  When I came to terms with the fact that part of my existence had to be due to my father – sometime later in life, though I was still very young by dark elven terms – I realized his absence only brought a vague feeling of curiosity.  Mother was enough for me – living with her was enough of a challenge, since she had a temper to match her countenance. 

Mother was considered plain by dark elven standards, her chin too strong, eyebrows slightly too thick, nose too prominent, her features marred further by a cruel-looking scar on her forehead, just over her right eyebrow.  Her body had similar scars, the scar tissue at times unpleasant to behold.  She was muscular nearly to the point of it being a further flaw in her appearance. I did not resemble her in any way except in the color of her eyes – a deep maroon, almost the color of fresh blood.  This was not an uncommon color, to be sure, not like blue or purple, but I found to my advantage later that it seemed to be popular with the opposite sex.

She always wore a plain robe and leggings in the apartment, and chain mail elsewhere, that contributed to her scent – leather with the hint of oil and metal.  Sturdy boots and a common cloak held 'surprises' for attackers that I later added to my own clothing – all sorts of ingenious hiding places for little, nasty weapons. 

She was not kindly – how could she be? Commoners cannot afford to be kindly, caring creatures.  For they are in a sense even more under the gaze of the Queen than her sniveling priestesses and her grasping nobles – they are where the blood on the altars is from.  It is believed – and I have no reason to doubt this – that the Queen herself guides her priestesses, like carrion-feeders to a kill – to specific commoners to sacrifice.  My mother was somewhat potentially in greater danger than the majority, because she worshipped not the Queen, but Vhaerun of the shadows. 

This was of course something she concealed from me until I was much older, for children are prone to frankness and truth.  I never knew what underlying purpose she was part of – to me, she was the strict Mother who cooked the meals, taught me to write and speak, and most importantly, introduced me to the Dance.

The world at the age of six was a boring place.  Mother could not take me with her to _L'Phindar's Inthigg _– letting a child run free in an area full of monsters would be a good way of getting rid of the child, but certainly not a good way of ensuring its safety.  So she locked me in the apartment with daily severe admonishments not to do anything idiotic.  Since her disciplinary punishments were invariably excruciating, I wasn't stupid enough to try and cross her.  I did not lack the inquisitive spirit of childhood, but I had better sense than to go wandering around disobeying my betters.

To keep me occupied she indulged my fascination in the Dance and drew up training exercises that I should perform.  She didn't trust me with weapons, and so the first Dance that I learnt was not of weaponry, but unarmed.  I could practice for hours until I tired and ate the food she always left on the table before going, rest a while, then start again until she came back, studied me critically, and found fault in something.  It may have been her way of showing some affection in that she cared enough to patiently correct my mistakes in a manner that I would understand, or perhaps not.  It does not matter now.

**

Mother never told me her name, or her past.  The first I knew when I was allowed to accompany her to _L'Phindar's Inthigg_ for the first time and heard one of her colleagues, a sturdy-looking duergar named Pa'kaq approached us.  

"Veldrin! D'ye see ye've grown a tail wit' legs, yeh?" 

He spoke in rough Undercommon, a language I was familiar with.  His one eye, under the bushy eyebrows, winked, and the impressive beard quivered as if with a life of its own.  Pa'kaq was stout and heavily muscled, like all his kin, and his smell always reminded me of the insanely strong dwarven lager that they were all somewhat addicted to.  A conical steel helmet was jammed on his head, and he wore a set of plain if well made, distinctly dwarven armor.  In one of his sturdy hands he carried a huge, gleaming axe, in the other, an incongruous sheet of clean white paper that was growing grubbier by the moment.

"The quality of your sense of humor has grown as deplorable as your hygiene," Mother replied mildly.  "When was the last time you took a bath, _iblith_?" I froze, expecting a fight, but some of the other guards and workers in earshot chuckled.   

"Th' time when I was helpin' ye wit' th' umber hulk cage an' ye slipped an' fell on me, lass." Pa'kaq retorted with surprising good humor, "Why, I never knew ye felt that way 'bout poor old me."

"The day I feel that way for you is the day I feed you to _haszakkin_ and watch them break their tentacles trying to go through your impenetrable skull, _wael_."

"'Tis by far a prettier one than yon drow one I see, lass."

"The sight of you pains my eyes, _rothe_."

"That's 'cos yer eyes're defective like the rest of ye, lass."

"'Defective'! You actually _know_ words of more than three syllables! I am so happy for you."

It went on, a confusing barrage of insults while the others went on with setting up a large cage the size of the apartment.  Eventually Mother and Pa'kaq – who turned out to be the head of one of the larger guard businesses in Manyfolk, and, as it turned out, the one who had gotten Mother this job – stopped, and he changed back to the subject.  "So then, who's th' kid?"

"His name is Zaknafein," Mother said shortly.  "We'd need help running errands today since this new import is coming in.  Do not be soft on him – if he gets in the way, kick him out of it." 

Then she turned to me.  "Zaknafein, follow Pa'kaq for now.  Do what he says." She did not need to threaten – that was unspoken, an uncomfortable air that remained as she stalked off to help the other guards.  Helpless and alone, I shot Pa'kaq a wary look full of confusion.

"Ye've done this before, kid?" Pa'kaq scratched at his beard as he squinted at me.  When I didn't answer, unsure of what to say, he added, "Ain't nothin' wrong if ye haven't.  She ain't here to hear it, an' I won't tell if ye won't." With that, he winked.

I decided I liked Pa'kaq.

**

Mother ignored me for the most of the day, but I hardly noticed.  Pa'kaq was a wealth of new information, and the world was full of new experiences.  He didn't have time to show me around, but as I followed him he gave a few explanations for what everyone was doing.  _L'Phindar's Inthigg_ was huge, and stank of animals – row after row of cages carefully spaced such that each inhabitant could not get at the other.  Tiny in comparison was the reception desk near the entrance where customers would buy and sell monsters.  Some of these would be pets, some would be sacrifices – others, components of spells or suchlike.  There was a consistent cacophony of sound, some from the cages, some from the workers and guards that made my ears, accustomed to the relative quiet of the apartment, hurt.  The multitude of infrared color made my eyes hurt, as well.

"See, kid, this new import's a big 'un.  A dragon."

"A dragon!" I immediately regretted the way I said that – it made me sound ignorant, unworldly.  Well, I _was_ ignorant and unworldly – but you would understand if I did not want to seem so.  

Pa'kaq laughed – or rather, rumbled- when I said that.  "Don't wet yerself, kid.  Ain't a big 'un, and it ain't gonna stay here long."

"I'm not afraid," I said instantly, trying to recover some ground.  "At all," I added, in case he didn't get it.

One bushy eyebrow rose.  "Yeh?"

"Yes."

"Ye've never been 'fraid before?"

"No."

"Even with her around?"

I hesitated briefly.  True, Mother was intimidating… but I realized with mild surprise that no, she had never frightened me before – even at her most furious.  "No."

Pa'kaq glanced back at where Mother was berating several workers of different species for setting up a bar wrongly.  The workers were cringing back, like kobolds, looking for a chance to slink away.  If they had tails, the tails would be down, between their legs.  

"Yeh? I find that hard t' believe."

It was some time later, after I'd run some messages around and helped in cleaning up, that Pa'kaq spoke again.  "Are ye hers?"

"No."

"Yeh?"

"I'm nobody's creature," I said proudly, with a hint of arrogance.  It was a trait that would, unfortunately, stay with me for all of my life, and would probably lead to my downfall.  Here, however, it merely made the dwarf laugh.  

"I meant if she's yer Mum." 

I looked anxiously in Mother's direction, but her back was to me.  She had not introduced me as her son, perhaps with her own reasons for doing so.  If that was the case… 

Pa'kaq saw my uncertainty and shrugged.  "If it'd get ye in trouble, never ye mind.  It's prob'ly so anyways – ye've got yer mom's eyes."

He looked more closely at my features, bending forward in a comical manner as he did so, then added, "And yer father's pretty face, eh?"

That was the first time I thought of my father as a tangible, existing being.  

"My father?"

Pa'kaq looked vague, then said hastily, "Just a guess, kid."  

I was interrupted from further questioning by the sound of a harsh, bloodthirsty roar at the entrance.

**

I had been far too busy talking to Pa'kaq to notice the progression of rothe dragging large wagons of crates, most of which were quickly unloaded by the simple method of manhandling them into their cages, forcing out the inhabitant, closing the cage door and then removing the crate.  This was not as easy as it sounded, for many of the monsters were pressured and vicious as a result.  I saw one worker get a nasty gash on his arm from the claw of some strange bird-like creature as tall as he was, and had to be rushed off quickly for antidote and treatment.  Apparently there was poison involved.

Pa'kaq told me to stay, and lumbered off to give apparently conflicting directions as the final and biggest crate was carefully moved.  There was no sound from the crate, and I blinked as they opened it outside the cage.  Several workers went into it, and came out manfully carrying a sleeping dragon.

As Pa'kaq had said, it was a small one, probably only twice a dark elf's height at the shoulder, but it looked extremely large to me then as they carefully placed it in the cage and shut the door.  It continued to stay in a deep sleep – drugs, Pa'kaq explained later.  It was one of the species of deep dragon, with vestigial wings, a long, sleek body armored with overlapping scales, darkly iridescent in hues of black.  Ivory horns, in stark contrast, arced up from the back of is triangular head and eye ridges, and occasionally it would move its mouth, showing sharp dagger-like teeth.  Its graceful, fragile-looking tail tip flicked back and forth, snake-like.

"All this trouble fer a mage," Pa'kaq muttered, stopping me from getting too close to the crate.  "Ye'd just hope it doesn't wake before 'e gets 'ere."

"What does the mage want it for?"

Pa'kaq shrugged.  "Who knows? Who cares? S'long as he pays.  Ye don't wanna know what mages do, kid.  Just look at them scrolls.  Sometimes they use _haszakkin _brains."  Shaking his head at the apparent insane perversity of drow mages, he stamped off to check on the other cages.  I thought about this as I followed – it was a new take on mages, at least.  I had always had the idea that Mother would not be displeased if I turned mage later on in life, for reasons unknown to me until much later, so I had assumed what they did was advantageous.  Magic did seem exciting, glamorous even.  Now I was uncertain again.

The world enjoys orchestrating the decomposition of illusions.

**

The mage in question arrived in a blaze of color – the first time I had seen magic, a portal - and I was somewhat certain again – I rather envied the way everyone immediately deferred to him.  His long white hair was worn in a strange cut, and his robes were far richer than anything I'd ever seen, in shimmering colors with marvelous designs and complex folds that showed the hint of gleaming silver beneath.  The dark elven mage sniffed in distaste as he looked around, not even deigning to plant his mage staff on the ground, and nodded curtly with the proprietor of the shop – also a dark elf.  The others, he pretended not to notice.

The transaction was carried out, then the dark elf waved his staff.  The portal yawned wider, the swirling color within growing more and more frantic, and then it swallowed him and the dragon's cage, closing with a snap.

Pa'kaq snorted in disgust, and went to talk to some guards.  I tentatively asked the nearest one what the mage's name was.

"Ye don't know, kid?" 

"No," I said patiently.  A trait in dwarves is their tendency to state the obvious.

"That's Gromph Baenre, kid.  Th' ArchMage."

**

I asked Mother more questions about mages when we were back in the apartment, and she seemed amused.  "You want to be a mage, Zaknafein?"

"I don't know."  I paused.  "If I become a mage, do I have to give up the Dance?"

"Dance? What Dance?" Mother looked confused.

"Fighting, of course!" I said, with childish amazement that she hadn't known. 

The next thing I knew, I was slumped against the opposite wall with a welt on my shoulder and a pain in the side of my head.  Mother was in one of her moods as she stalked towards me and picked me up under the arms, shaking me painfully.  "Fighting is _not_ dancing, you stupid child! It is about survival, staying ahead of your enemy such that you don't _vithin' _die.   It is never something beautiful.  If you think that way, be a mage, then!" 

I was too stunned to speak, and to my horror, felt tears welling up behind my eyes, making them sting.  Frantically I willed them away – Mother hated seeing anything cry.  Tears would never accomplish anything.  Luckily, she didn't notice, but stared at me for a moment with blazing eyes before dropping me, going into the bedroom we shared and closing the door.

"It's a dance," I muttered, unwilling to give up.  It wasn't the first time I'd disagreed with her – behind her back, of course.  Somehow, this incident decided – childishly - for me what I wanted to become.  Somehow, I've stayed with the choice ever since.  

I didn't know why Mother got angry at certain things and why other, more provocative (to me) events passed her by, but as was my habit, I noted down what not to say in front of her in the future mentally and kept on going.

That is sometimes the best way to deal with situations, instead of blindly trying to change them.  Like a stone set in a wall, at times it is better to stay than to try and escape, for that may bring down the wall in its crushing power onto you.

Mother recovered her temper quickly and continued to teach the Dance.  I progressed to weapons in a year, to the amusement of Pa'kaq, since now that Mother took me to work regularly I had to practice there.  The dwarf's technique was unsurprisingly different from Mother's, relying on strength and a strange finesse in whirling the crude axe as compared to the dexterity involved in swordplay.  

For a brief moment in my life, existence was relatively peaceful – until the Visitor arrived.

--

Notes and References:

_Iblith_: filth, carrion.

_Wael_: fool.__


	3. Intersection

Intersection: [Construction from the Journal of S'kaerik, Dancer of the Eclipse]

            "Must you drop by so often?" 

            "Is that a complaint, Lady Cat?" Jarlaxle paused to give one of his elaborate bows.  First his wrist would sweep the wide-brimmed purple hat off, then one leg would glide slightly back, and the body arched tightly, to display the black dome of his head all in one gesture that looked almost choreographed.  S'kaerik chuckled and stood up to offer an equally graceful bow in return, though one that was much less complicated.  

            Jarlaxle took the opportunity in the process of replacing his hat on his head, as he always did, to study his surroundings.  Several of the newer inns (in terms of Menzoberranzan time – in real time it would be many centuries old) that had repairable amenities had been commandeered as a rudimentary base for the Company, and though this wasn't one of the better rooms, Jarlaxle admired the workmanship of his kin.  

Removing the dust on the walls here revealed the gleam of polished stone, and part of a mural depicting everyday life in the Old City had been revealed.  The stone bed was still sturdy and a mattress had been placed on it, though the new pillows and blankets were in a nest-like arrangement on the cleaned ground that still sported its mosaic.  Carefully placed on a pillow was the book he had found, and next to it, an ungainly large black device squatted – ah yes, a typewriter.  

            Snakes of wire slithered away from behind it into a large, marginally portable generator in the corner that hummed as if alive.  A table, a wardrobe, and two chairs completed the room – the brilliant tapestries he vaguely remembered that had existed in this inn had long fallen apart into gray dust.  

            Eventually his attention returned to S'kaerik – a young mackerel-striped gray female Weyr-Cat.  Weyr-Cats were a strain of were-tigers stuck between the two states of human-like and feline that somehow gained intelligence that nearly matched an elf's level.  Combined with their comparatively long lives, a good birth rate, energy and feline curiosity, they'd gained what could be popularly called civilization in a short time, almost rivaling the prolific humans.  S'kaerik was an accurate representation of her species – holding a high rank in an educational institution, an explorer, scholar, and when needed to be, a warrior.  All the pioneers needed this last – although some of the more dangerous beasts in the Underdark were endangered, there were still enough vicious ones for one to need skill in firearms or other such weaponry.  Cats had the advantage of having one just… at hand, to make a pun – their claws were exceedingly sharp, and long enough to do serious damage.

            Due to the fur that covered a lot of their bodies save from the shoulders up, Weyr-Cats never did wear a lot of clothes.  S'kaerik, no exception, wore something known as a tank-top that emphasized a Weyr-Cat's otherwise small bust, white, and very short… shorts, khaki, exposing the toned muscles in the arms and legs, digits that ended with retractable claws.

            S'kaerik's long, sleek tail twitched, which could mean anything from amusement to annoyance, he'd found, but her oval human-like face smiled indulgently, not showing the pointed canines, and the triangular cat ears swiveled slightly.  "Maybe."   

            "You are beginning to speak like _Ilythiiri_, Lady Cat," Jarlaxle bantered, refusing the chair S'kaerik pushed forward.  As he'd expected, S'kaerik immediately indicated that he sit on the 'nest' instead, which he did so unhurriedly.  Now he could see what she had been doing – discreetly, of course.

            "Mrr.  And whose fault can that be, I wonder?" S'kaerik asked archly, and then looked around the room.  "I'm afraid I have no refreshments that I can… "

            "No matter, I have already eaten," Jarlaxle said dismissively.  The paper in the typewriter – and the stack next to it – looked like S'kaerik had finally gotten down to translating the book.  Not that he hadn't read it before he passed it to her, but he was idly curious as to her interpretation of it.  

            S'kaerik sat down and raised an eyebrow at him.  "Why did you come this time?"

            "To enjoy your company, Lady Cat," Jarlaxle grinned.  

            "Ah?" 

            "To bask in the light of your aura of enlightenment."

            S'kaerik snorted.  "There's nothing you really can't find out for yourself, Jarlaxle."

            "Really?"

            That had the effect he'd intended – S'kaerik's tail twitched, and she apologized.  "Forgive me for being so cranky," she said, rather sheepishly, "I haven't had much sleep, and you know how us cats are when deprived of our naps.  I've been busy with the book you entrusted to me."

            Ah, his cue.  "I was meaning to check into your progress in the translation," he said as casually as he could, making it appear as an offhand gesture of courtesy.  

            "I'm not surprised," S'kaerik smiled.  "One of the characters in it is definitely you."

            "You believe so, Lady Cat? Why then, it must be so!"

            "You don't need to act surprised, Jarlaxle.  Unless many dark elves in Menzoberranzan dress like you do and found mercenary companies."

            "And if there are?"

            "It'd be hard to believe," S'kaerik said firmly.  She paused.  "Or maybe not.  Are you serious?"

            "Am I?" he asked playfully.

            S'kaerik raised an eyebrow.  The claws on her hands slid out, black, sharp arcs.  

            Jarlaxle chuckled.  Time to back off a little.  "There were twenty thousand of us."

            "Of course, you realize that doesn't answer the question," S'kaerik commented dryly.  "And you won't even tell me where you got this book.  How am I supposed to give it up to exhibition when you don't?"

            "You keep it?" he suggested. 

            "No, I can't."

            "Of course you can, Lady Cat.  No one knows you have the book except myself, and I certainly have no reason to spread it around."

            S'kaerik sighed patiently, as though lecturing a child.  Jarlaxle found her moral lectures highly amusing, being someone with very few moral scruples, and so he let her scold him.  The tone of her voice always changed to a purring drawl that put more rhythmic emphasis on certain syllables, somewhat like a strange musical instrument.  "Jarlaxle, anything in this city belongs to the Company and should be up for public exhibition, especially if it has as much vested public interest as I think this book has the potential for." She hesitated.  "Oh dear.  What _else _did you take?"

            "Nothing much," he said, with exactly the type of indifference that would upset her.  

            "_Jarlaxle_…"

            "From the Bregan D'aerthe headquarters.  Surely you do not begrudge me my own property?" Jarlaxle didn't mention that all the items of true value he had taken… weren't from Bregan D'aerthe – but of course, she didn't need to know that, nor did she need to know that of his 'entourage' of soldiers, quite a few were expert thieves who knew how to remove something ancient from a dust-filled room without disturbing anything else… and also covering their tracks in the process.   Combing that with a few chemical experts and a few mages, and even the scent of their passage could be erased.

            In phrasing it this way, Jarlaxle deliberately put S'kaerik on track.  She laughed.  "I'm sorry.  Bregan D'aerthe property is of course yours.  Is it one of the reasons you agreed to come to Menzoberranzan?" 

            "Certainly." Jarlaxle smiled enigmatically.  "The book was from my archives."

            "Oh.  Do you really mind if it is put on display?"

            "Considering just about everyone it mentions is dead except myself… no." Jarlaxle decided.  This would also make S'kaerik think she was further in his debt, since she would think that it had cost much in terms of 'emotional value' for him to allow her to put it on exhibition.  Pulling puppet strings is sometimes not as fun as making them.  "About the translation… ?"

            "Oh yes, we keep getting distracted," S'kaerik patted the stack of paper.  "It's going slow.  I have to stop every so often to look up words, only to realize they were abbreviations.  And sometimes the writing turns abruptly into old duergar, which I can't read.  I'd have to ask some of the older duergar here if they can remember."

            "There is no need for that," Jarlaxle said, appearing to be generous, though in this way if there was any material he decided later that needed to be suppressed – well, if he translated it he could always change it a little.  "I can translate it for you."

            "How many Old languages do you remember?" S'kaerik asked, blinking.

            "Dark elf… Common, Elvish, dwarven, duergar… Svirfneblin, goblin, Undercommon… quite a few," Jarlaxle said, ticking them off on his fingers.  

            "That's very impressive."

            "The advantages of being long-lived, my dear," Jarlaxle grinned.

            "I would think so.  You're probably the oldest dark elf in the world.  I must have your secret," S'kaerik chuckled, a throaty, light rumble.

            "Just take care not to die from all the little incidents that seem to plague dark elves – mortal enemies, righteous heroes, magical traps, hordes of ravening dwarves, that sort of thing."

            "And do you know how to make wrinkles go away, and a body grow fuller too?" S'kaerik asked theatrically, her eyes opening wide.  "Do share your infinite wisdom with us, great master.  I yearn for the veil of ignorance to be lifted from my eyes."

            "Are you teasing me, Lady Cat?"

            "Of course not, great master."

            "I have never had much luck understanding you females.  Even when you look perfect you creatures will still complain about your appearance.  If it's an elf, she will invariably think she is too flat, or her legs too short; a human, her chest too full, or her rump too small or such; a dwarf, the beard not soft enough… heavens, even the few female dragons that I have known have similar complaints, mainly to do with their scales and wings.  I wonder if all female creatures have this mental disorder."

            "Well, I find it surprising how it's only males who can ever be satisfied with how they look, sometimes." S'kaerik returned.

            "Is that not more efficient?"

            "Maybe all of you are just too lazy to seek true improvement." S'kaerik winked.

            "Feh.  So what is your complaint, Lady Cat? Of course, if it is too personal… "

            "You'd still want to know anyway," S'kaerik yawned, quickly covering her mouth.  "Sorry.  Lack of sleep.  My 'complaint'? Eyes.  I think green would look better than yellow. It's a long list.  Wishing I was born with black fur instead of in patches of gray, and all that.  Did you meet any dark elven females with 'complaints'?"

            "The priestesses of Lloth would never think of confiding in a mere rogue male, Lady Cat.  As to the others… they mainly have the same complaints as a surfacer elf would have."

            "'Surfacer'.  That word always sounds like a spit."

            "Perhaps it was meant to," Jarlaxle shrugged.  "Only the dark elves continue to use it."

            "Well, I hope the legendary attitude of your kin to us 'surfacers' have improved," S'kaerik commented dryly, "The next dark elven city due to have a Rail is Sshamath."

            "Sshamath? But that is the mage city… " Jarlaxle had already heard this news some time ago, nearly immediately after it was announced, but feigning surprise now prompted S'kaerik to explain.

            "The Underdark mages have a different attitude to technology than the surface ones, it seems," S'kaerik smiled.  "Sshamath actually offered to pay for the construction.  They are also highly curious when trade would start.  Trade in magic and firearms, to be precise."

            "Well, that has not changed – their wish for more magical items, to be precise," Jarlaxle acknowledged.  "The mage city is one of the most… adaptable of the ancient cities that are left."

            "Would you know why?"

            "It is patently obvious.  They turned atheist sometime after the Time of Troubles.  With many of the gods against them, what could they do, other than open up non-drow alliances and come up with ways to defend themselves?"

            "Very interesting," S'kaerik's tail twitched, this time in excitement.  "Perhaps when Menzoberranzan is properly running I will visit Sshamath."

            "You would be extremely popular in the University there – having a position in a Surface University.  I'd offer you a room in Bregan D'aerthe's base there.  It would probably be the only way you can escape the questions of insistent half-blind mages."

            "Mrr.  And how do I escape _your _questions, pray tell?"

            Jarlaxle laughed.  "Why, behind a wall of answers, of course."

            "Perhaps I'd just not tell them I have a position.  Then they won't pester me."

            "Ah, if Sshamath has gone far enough to make a monetary offer to your Company, that would mean they have thoroughly researched the Company and all its prominent employees that have any likelihood of being sent just so that they will be prepared for anyone your Company may decide to send as part of the team.  That would mean they already know about you, Lady Cat."

            "Sometimes your species frightens me."

            "Only sometimes? We must try harder then.  You surfacers are beginning to catch up, what with your metal horses and lightning poles, yes?"

            "You know perfectly well what those things are truly called, Jarlaxle," S'kaerik pointed out good-humoredly, not rising to the bait.  "Bregan D'aerthe probably owns a lot of technology."

            "Oh?"

            "The revolver at your hip has as silencer-amp – yes, I can see it through the shape of the holster.  That's not particularly common yet.  Where did your people go, anyway? Back to your headquarters?"

            "One of them," Jarlaxle admitted.  "We chose one close to this area."

            "So you can come over more often to pester me, yes?"

            "That was one of the reasons," Jarlaxle said, unperturbed.  

            "Which reminds me.  Did Zaknafein ever actually speak to you about his mother?"

            "And what does that have to do with anything?" 

            "The book, of course."

            "You're still convinced Zaknafein wrote it?" Jarlaxle carefully inserted enough disbelief in his tone to make it sound genuine.  

            Unfortunately, S'kaerik wasn't fooled – the corner of her mouth quirked up, which meant she was going to humor him.  It was almost patronizing, in a sense.  "Okay, so perhaps it was not Zaknafein.  Would you happen to know about the author of this book?"

            "There are several books in our archives.  I cannot possibly remember them all," Jarlaxle said ingenuously.  It was an attitude that didn't go with his general personality, so S'kaerik chuckled.

            Before she could ask some more questions – some material in the archives was still sensitive information, though the truly important ones had been removed or destroyed when Bregan D'aerthe withdrew from the city of their birth, Jarlaxle decided to end the conversation.  "It is almost time for lunch.  Would you like to accompany me to my headquarters?"

            "However did you manage to pry food away from the stores?" S'kaerik smiled.

            "Actually, since the hunting maps in the archives are still more or less acceptable, we manage very well." It was somewhat more of a matter of getting the mages to cast divination spells to check on the old stashes of materials such as weapons and information Bregan D'aerthe had left in caves outside the city, but in the process they had found several good spots for foraging.

            "Oh.  Well, if it's not too much trouble…"

**

            S'kaerik yawned as she got back to her room, and spent a few minutes sprawled on the nest, eyes closed.  Any exposure to Jarlaxle that lasted more than a few hours gave her a mild headache.  Perhaps it was her brain overheating with the effort of trying to catch up with him and all the word traps he enjoyed employing.  Still, he'd seemed to have released some information about Zaknafein after repeated proddings that would help in constructing the diction of the next part of the translation that she needed to do.

            The book was beginning to prove just as fascinating as her job here, which was to help in the restoration of places by helping to deduce what each building was used for, and translate the writings.  Which, admittedly, Jarlaxle could do as well – he often dropped in on people scoping out the area to give 'helpful' pointers – that is to say they took it down and asked her later.  The word of a dark elf as devious as Jarlaxle was not exactly to be trusted fully, however charming he could be.

            Unfortunately, in this particular case involving the book, she had no other person to turn to.  Just about everyone she could think of who could have known the author was dead, including Drizzt and his closest associates, after that famous incident with a female dragon and her eggs.  Being from a line whose ancestors used to be predators put a new light on that situation.  It wasn't the dragon's fault that expansion had made it necessary to dig coal mines and remove forested areas for construction, or its fault that the burgeoning population of the town dwellers – not just humans – had made it necessary to open up more areas for livestock, driving out the wildlife that dragons would eat.  Nor was it its fault that it was living in the cave near the town – it'd been there since before the relatively new town was built, after all… but heroes would be heroes.

            So far as the book seemed, Drizzt seemed nothing much like his father at all, unless you took into account the inevitable jading that the years painted onto a person.  Not that she expected him to, having read the memoirs and Drizzt's own description of his father, but having other proof seemed to make that fact so much more solid and harder to swallow.  She had no idea why.

            She could understand why Jarlaxle would like to suppress any hint that he was in the account, anyway.  It would help in understanding his character – and understanding was just one step towards being able to manipulate a person.  It was obvious that someone like Jarlaxle would not like that to happen.

            With a sigh, she went back to the book and the page she had left off.  It contained a confusing snarl of grammar – not the first one – that she was trying to untangle.  Not for the first time, she wondered what were the mercenary's true reasons for giving her the book.

**

            Jarlaxle practiced his throwing daggers on a board hung on the wall while he reviewed a map of Menzoberranzan.  Small red tokens marked out the area that the Company had already explored, blue tokens marked the areas that Bregan D'aerthe had yet to 'evacuate' properly.  Currently, the red was nearing some of the blues.  

            That wasn't much of a problem – at most he could go tell the Company that such areas were Bregan D'aerthe property, but he knew that proving that may be annoying, considering some areas seemed to be public property – inns and such.  Only bases would be safe, partly because they were somewhat inaccessible unless one was familiar with it.  

            No matter – the Company was interested in Donigarten, and Jarlaxle was sure that the monsters there still remained, or had multiplied without the supervision of the dark elves.  They would be preoccupied there for a while, giving him time to clean out the bits of the city that he wanted to.  Zaknafein would have… 

            Jarlaxle reined in that thought sharply.  Since the last few centuries he had missed his friend's company, and quite frequently nowadays, he'd regretted not dragging Zaknafein out of his self-destructive stay in House Do'Urden.  Perhaps that was why he had given the book up for translation – the inevitable spread of words was, in a way, immortalizing his friend, spreading his presence.  

            The mercenary snorted.  What maudlin thoughts for someone who had lived for longer that he sometimes would have liked to.  Still, loneliness for such a person was not uncommon.  There was talk – not that it could be trusted on all counts - in the Surface worlds of wondrous devices in the making, and one of these was something called a Time Machine.  

            Perhaps… 

            One thing he should have learned, Jarlaxle thought wryly, was to accept inevitability.  But it was an intriguing idea, though it seemed an impossible fantasy, traveling back in time! S'kaerik would be highly interested in that idea, if he knew her.  Historians were sometimes so obsessed in the past that they forget that the present and the future follow the same cycles and should at least be watched as well.

            In the darkness, Jarlaxle smiled.


	4. Part 2: Naetalya

Title: Second Chances [2/?]

Author: Anya al'Nighter

Email: anyasy@yahoo.com

Spoilers: None, actually.

Author's Note: I've just spent far, far too much time playing Diablo II: Lord of Destruction. So you may um, notice some familiarity with the descriptions here.  Trying to wean myself out of it.  Unfortunately, the other game I'm playing now is Unreal Tournament.  Don't worry – hopefully _that_ won't find its way into the story in an undiluted form.

Summary: Back to the account. 

Disclaimer: FR and all that belongs to TSR, Wizards of the Coast, Salvatore… everyone except poor me.  

Part 2

Naetalya

Translator's Note: The word 'love' is popularly known not to be in the dark elven language, giving rise to a range of popular speculation ranging from the profound to the trite.  However, as the reader should know by now, the author did not write all of this in a consistently coherent account – some words and paragraphs were written in a multitude of different languages, including Undercommon and Duergar, giving a wider range of words available.  It is unfortunate to note that some of these words did have to be censored.  Ancient Duergar is regrettably rich in swear words.

Also, it has been brought to my attention (repeatedly) that the author of the story is not Zaknafein, and hence should not be referred to as Zaknafein – but for lack of any clue as to his identity (in the original, the author referred to himself by abbreviation), and for continuity, he shall be called 'Zaknafein' in the story.  This is open to debate when the account has been completely translated.

            The arrival of the Visitor was quite unexpected.  Or rather, I had not known of it – on later reflection, I realize that Mother did seem to be restless and more short-tempered than usual the few cycles before.  However, like most males would, I just attributed the mood-change to the unpredictable quality of femalehood and gave it no further thought, except a mental note to keep out of her way.  Mother was still – her memory was as long as a duergar's – annoyed by the remark I had made about fighting, and her patience, already somewhat short normally, had degenerated further.

            The Visitor, on first impression, seemed male.  Certainly I had not seen females that were normally below a certain height, and she was – besides, her features and body were covered by a jet black hooded cloak that seemed ludicrously noticeable, especially if one stood in a crowd, but which I realized later had some arcane significance.  She was sitting calmly in the living room when I saw her, coming out of my small room for a cup of water, with Mother standing somewhat deferentially to her side.  Only her black-gloved hands and legs – sheathed in leather and strange metal straps with buckles of a curious, vague luminous blue, could be seen, and one was loosely crossed over the other in a distinctively male posture.

            Her weapons were of a type that I'd rarely seen before – her hands were in fitting cylindrical cages of adamantite so black that the blue highlights in the dimly-lit room seemed to be malevolent mouths struggling to yawn open, each hand casually gripping a bar near the top of the cages half a finger's length away.  On the top of the cages each were three long, slightly curved metal talons half an arm long, and I blinked when I realized that they were mithril, and very well made, at that.  One of the claws rested on top of the other, giving the impression of a hunting cat at rest.

            The hood turned towards me as I stood in the doorway, unabashedly staring.  Certainly the first words the Visitor said to me were as curious as her appearance, and also gave me an indication of her true sex for the first time.

            "He is," she said shortly, and then flicked her hood back with the tips of one claw, to reveal an attractive if slightly boyish face in the angle of her chin and the slightly crude shape of her eyebrows.  The full lips pursed slightly, and the sharp, keen eyes were as hard as adamantite.  I realized belatedly that at her right hip, attached to her loose, thick belt, were two slim scimitars in sheaths of sturdy, plain blue leather.  Her leather armour was not the one in fashion with a remarkable number of females – revealing and useless – but businesslike.  Here was one who knew the Dance too, and appeared to know it very well.  

            "So…" Mother began.  The Visitor's words seemed to have made an impression – she seemed startled now, losing some of the flint-like quality to her expression, making her look more vulnerable.  I felt a short burst of hostility towards the Visitor for this.  Looking back, I realize today that although Mother was not the easiest of creatures to live with, I loved her, in my way.  Perhaps I love too easily, but I believed – or I like to believe – that she too, loved me.  

            The Visitor, to my mortification, noticed the fleeting change of expression – one of her eyebrows arched up elegantly - but merely smiled.  "You have done well.  He will reward you."

            Mother nodded quickly, and looked as though she was about to say something, but was cut off by the Visitor impatiently.  "However, he needs further training if he is to be what he should be.  I will take him now."

            Mother looked at me helplessly, and I felt a wrenching sensation that choked up my throat.  To my horror, I realized that tears threatened to mist up my eyes, and I willed them down, bit my lip to keep from sniffing like some weakling, and folded my hands.  "I'm not going anywhere," I said challengingly.

            Immediately Mother's expression changed to the familiar one of fury, and she took a step forward, but the Visitor held up a hand sharply.  "No, leave him.  One should not break such spirit, but strengthen it."

            "I am not sure if His service can be well carried out by such a rebellious, stubborn child," Mother said angrily, finding refuge in one of the more elemental emotions.

            "It will be," the Visitor said calmly, leaving me more confused as to whom they were referring to.  "Now, child…" She got fluidly to her feet and straightened her cloak.

            "I will be your teacher until there is nothing else the both of us can teach each other.  It has been this way since the first of the Unseen, and it will continue – when I relinquish my role, you will take my place and eventually teach your own replacement." 

            "This is not the safest of places to speak of such things," Mother warned, but the Visitor shrugged.

            "Her ear is not so varied as to be able to listen from all the shadows.  Zaknafein – do you not want to learn the Dance?" And she drew a quick, deadly pattern in the air with her claws.

            I didn't know what stunned me more – the seemingly impossible, yet natural-looking graceful rapidity to her ability, or the fact that she'd used the same word for fighting as I had.  I half-expected Mother to explode at her, but she kept silent, sullenly so.  Only until later did I learn from the Visitor that Mother had been one of two candidates – an extremely rare occurrence - in youth for the position of the Unseen, but was turned down for the Visitor, which would explain her intense dislike in private for terms that reminded her of the Unseen – the importance of which I will explain later.  

That, however, showed me why Mother's attitude towards me was so volatile – it must have been both painful and joyful for her to have birthed the new Unseen – painful in the reminder that her current position in life was unchanging because of her failure to become the current Unseen, and joyful in the honour that will be accrued from my becoming the next one.

            Then, however, I just stuttered.  "W-what?"

            "Go with her," Mother commanded, though her expression visibly twisted into one of bitterness.  "Go."

**

            "I want to go back," I insisted rather feebly for the twentieth time.  "Now."

            The Visitor chuckled, literally dragging me by the hand – having removed one of her claws and hung it at her hip opposite the scimitars - through some strange passage she had made somehow.  It was a narrow, arched enclosed path that seemed to have been constructed of malleable, metallic black material that shifted constantly into geometric patterns.  Later I was to learn that this was an ability of the Unseen – the Shadow Paths.  In the Underdark, a place of almost-permanent shadows, this was a potent method of escape or deadly arrival.

            "Please?" I tried, finally.  My feet hurt – it seemed as though we had been walking for a while, but it was nothing compared to the unfamiliar ache in myself that constricted my throat and made my eyes sting with the onset of tears.

            She stopped, and looked down.  Her expression itself was alien – it was one of sympathy.  "I know it is very sudden for you, but it is better this way.  Would you rather that I trained you in your home? The training of an Unseen is something that the Spider Queen can pick up, and you would put your mother in danger."

            "What if you pick someone else?" I demanded.  "Someone better."

            "There is no other better under the eye of the Mask," the Visitor said mildly.  

            Unwilling to ask for an explanation, and also unwilling to acquiesce, I folded my arms.  "There should be."

            "And you would know this because?" she gently chided.

            "Because… " Running out of words, I tried another tack.  "Why did you not take Mother along?"

            "She would not have wanted to come," the Visitor said with a sigh.  "She was my rival for candidacy of the Unseen.  She does not want to know of anything Unseen now."

            "Then she will hate me."  This realization disturbed me more than it should have.

            "Perhaps – or she will be proud of you, when you succeed," the Visitor suggested a little shrewdly.  To the child I was then, this was a revelation that kept me silent for a while as she continued to lead me through the passage.

            "What is the Unseen?" I asked finally.  

            "I will tell you after we reach sanctuary – something we will find earlier if you be quiet."

            I kept a sullen silence for the rest of the journey, I recall.

**

            The sanctuary she referred to was a smallish city – an outpost, actually – in which we just seemed to appear in unexpectedly when the passage ended and closed behind us.  

            We were in a market square four times smaller than the Bazaar, and aside from a few curious glances from the creatures – mostly dark elves, with some duergar and surprisingly enough to me, Svirfneblin and humans – we did not attract much attention.  The goods sold were not as rich as some of the things I had seen in the Bazaar, or as varied, but it could not be considered frugal.  All the dark elves seemed to be well off, without the pinched look of some of the lower commoners in Menzoberranzan.  The conversations around us floated over my head as we passed by.

            "… price of silk has increased…" 

            "… and S'laerin has stepped up to…"

            "… dragonhide boots! The best…"

            "… my pleasure to meet you…"

            "… did you hear about the…"

            "… play next cycle on Thesaen…"

            "… duergar colony found in…"

            "… birthed another child on…"

            The thing that struck me most of all was that the females seemed to be on an equal footing with the males – they joked, stood together in the queues at the stall, and nodded amiably to each other as they passed.  Some males even greeted the Visitor with a type of friendly familiarity absent in just about all of the female-male relationships in Menzoberranzan.

            Dazed and confused, I meekly followed the Visitor into narrow streets lined with high buildings constructed with matching narrow windows – for easy defence via arrows, I realized later – and eventually to a wide ramp, the apex of which towered a body-length over the buildings.  At the apex was what looked like a temple, though nothing as ornate as those of Lloth that I had seen from a distance.  This one looked more utilitarian.  The doors were sturdy and not wide enough for a large number of people to pass through, the windows were small and of the same shape as those on the buildings.  The only rather grotesque part of the otherwise gracefully constructed, castle-like building were the walls, covered in blackened stone masks of every shape and size, the blank eyes staring watchfully over the outpost.  

            At the main door toward which the Visitor was dragging me towards were two male guards, both of whom straightened up when they saw us approaching, and bowed, their armour creaking.  I still find it amusing whenever anything in full plate armour tries to do anything involving movement, and then, I had to struggle to keep my surly expression.  Averting my gaze to the intimidating masks helped, until my mind somehow caught hold of the idea that the masks were no longer looking at the city, but at us.  Me, to be precise.

            Now that was a disturbing thought.

            "Is he the one?" one of the guards inquired.

            "Yes," the Visitor smiled.  "Just in time, too.  I feel the years beginning to slow me down."

            "Tell that to the Queen's patrol that you took care of three days ago," the other guard said, and winked.  

            "No, no, they actually managed to scratch her.  She must be slowing down," the first guard said facetiously.  Both laughed, and the Visitor pulled a face of mock anger at them before dragging me into the building.

            The interior was also built for defence.  The tiles were slate, the room a large dome with walls too slippery – polished – to climb, and there was a balcony above with a solid, decorated adamantite rail sporting the occasional gap for missile weapons that was confusing to find, since it was somewhat concealed by the nature of the carvings – a mass of dragons fighting, tails and necks twisted together.  

            There were no carvings of spiders anywhere in the room, and I was turning to the Visitor for an explanation when a robed male emerged from one of the four doors in the room.

            The male wore a light black robe over something angular and bulky – probably some sort of armour.  His face was unlined, but I was struck by the impression of age.  His eyes were narrow and small, like slits in his face, and his mouth was set in a thin line.  His bone-white hair was neatly cut short and combed up, so no fringe curtained the high forehead.  "Naetalya." He greeted the Visitor in a cordial tone of voice.  "It is good that you have returned."

            "How could I not?" Naetalya bowed slightly.  "Yvaer, meet Zaknafein, the next Unseen.  Zaknafein, this is Yvaer, High Priest of Vhaerun."

            "Vhaerun!" I gasped, knowing full well what the name meant – the utterance of which could cost one one's life or worse in any Lloth-worshipping city.

            "You told him nothing?" Yvaer questioned.

            "Neither did his mother," Naetalya let go of my hand, and patted my head rather protectively without the least hit of being patronizing. 

            "I want to know what is going on," I said, not as firmly as I would have liked, though.

            Yvaer displayed as much patience as Naetalya had.  "You will fully understand in time… "

            "I want to know _now_." I paused, realizing this could be considered rude, and I was in no position to fight if they turned hostile.  "Please?"

            Yvaer and Naetalya looked at each other, then began to chuckle.  

            "Learn patience." Yvaer advised me, then turned back to Naetalya.  "We often forget about the impatience of youth.  When will you begin his training?"

            "Tomorrow," Naetalya shrugged.  "Today I will give him the tour."

            Annoyed at being more or less ignored, I attempted to pull my hand out of her grip, but only succeeded in pulling myself closer.  "I… "

            "In good time," Naetalya interrupted amiably.

            "But… "

            "Will it kill you not to know now, child?"

            "No.  And I am not a child." 

            "Then you will have to prove it to me," Naetalya replied, "Observe the tact that an adult can exercise."

            She'd cornered me there.  I nodded, furious at being outmanoeuvred.

**

            The name of the outpost was an extremely commonplace word – Veldrin.  Later I found that all outposts of Vhaeraun near potentially hostile cities were named Veldrin, so as to confuse the enemy, perhaps, or maybe for some strange aesthetic symmetry.  This Veldrin was much like all the others – small, built for defense, and housing around five thousand dark elves, four times smaller than Menzoberranzan. 

            Trade existed – with the enterprising dwarves and the occasional travellers.  Humans were surprisingly evident in number – followers of Vhaerun believed all non-elves inferior, but were more practical than followers of Lloth.  Careful treatment of 'Outsiders', as they called them, resulted in a rich trade for a relatively small settlement, the trade being the lifeblood of this place.  Not to mention that the number of friends made ensured that there were some escape routes in case of emergency.

            There were religious reasons for making contacts with surfacers, of course – since Vhaerun's ultimate aim was to reinstate the dark elves as a power on the Surface world over their elven brethren.  In practical terms, this meant the dark elves had to be familiar with the Surface world and all its workings – so contact with surfacers familiarized them with the Surface way of thought as well as its geography, politics, society and so on.  

            Personally, I still feel – even after having seen the Surface, that returning to the surface is now all but impossible, no matter how we want to or how beautiful it is.  The Underdark is our true home.  We have adapted to it – gotten used to the constant temperature, the humming magical ambience, the comforting stone that surrounded us and defined the world.  Our eyes have changed, our way of thought has changed, and we would be at a distinct disadvantage if we ever needed to return.

            It so happened, however, that Naetalya ended the relatively short tour of the small, well-planned city with a Shadow Path trip to the surface.  I only learned of this when I asked her where we were going when already walking in the Path.  Not surprisingly, I stopped dead, or attempted to.  The Unseen was extremely strong for her appearance.

            "But the Sun!" I tried to protest. 

            "It will be Night when we arrive," Naetalya said calmly.  "You have to see Vhaerun's Promise."

            "If we get attacked by the surface elves… "

            "Mmm.  And what have you heard of them?"

            I told her.  Street exaggeration and legends must have been more ludicrous than I'd thought, because she laughed.  "You believe so? Zaknafein… your first lesson: never accept anything until you have seen it for yourself."

            "Then what are they like?"

            "Less frightening than your stories make them out to be, but still dangerous.  Not as dangerous as the dark elves, or as cunning and intelligent, but enough to kill if one is not careful.  Do not make that face – I have made Surface trips very often.  I know how to be careful.  It is a beautiful place."

            "The Underdark is beautiful too,"

            "So it is, but the Surface is something different altogether."

            This was an understatement.

**

            We emerged into air that was immediately different from the warm heaviness of the Underdark.  This air was crisp and cold, and seemed lighter, moving constantly and gently pushing my fringe upwards – it smelled of something earthy and alive – it sang as it moved, a sweet whisper of sound that melded in to the other constant sounds in the Surface – the rustle of leaves, the distant call of an owl, crickets, frogs, cicadas, the high pitched shrieks of a bat, and the sounds of movement in the bushes and behind the trees that my hearing could pick up.  We were in a large meadow – to use the basic references I know for surface features that I later had to memorize - grass silvery with dew was dotted with white flowers painted a soft blue-grey in the moonlight.  Trees, silent, waiting giants that rose up from the meadow at uneven intervals, spread out their many arms protectively.  The moon herself was far overhead in a fat semicircle, hung impossibly in the clear ink-black sky, so vast and endless that when I looked up I felt as though I was falling, falling upwards into eternity.


	5. Intersection

Updating at last. : ) 

--

Intersection

            "Menzoberranzan is one of the cities of the most consistent Elvish construction," S'kaerik remarked from her sitting position on a crate.  They were in Narbondellyn, where the little debris that still remained was being cleared up.  The city was surprisingly intact in most areas, and did not need much restoration, except in parts where some monsters had moved into the outskirts.  Perhaps there was some forbidding aura around Dark Elven cities that discouraged habitation by other sentient creatures such as goblins, which would have destroyed it.

            Scaffolding had been carefully placed over the buildings that needed restoration, and from this angle, sitting on a crate in the Narbondellyn square, it looked as though the area was frozen in between reconstruction and deconstruction, metal fingers rising starkly out of the stone to cross each other in unbroken cages of light altitanium.

            "Is that a positive or a negative aspect?" Jarlaxle inquired.  He stood casually next to the crate, and S'kaerik thought the mercenary leader looked a little more furtive than normal.  

            "Positive," S'kaerik said absently, then added, in case the elf had a hidden opinion, "In terms of archaeology."

            "Ah.  And archaeology forgives the prejudice and slavery of the common folk that led to this pattern of construction?"

            She glanced at him quickly, to check if she had offended him despite her wording, but his expression had not changed – faintly curious, faintly bored – and furtive.  He must have done something.    "Archaeology observes and proves." 

            "And what is past is so interesting?"

            "Of course," S'kaerik said, deciding not to take the bait.  "Sometimes living in the present becomes tedious, so we intersperse it with a weaving of past memories."

            "You should have become a poet," Jarlaxle returned some of her earlier words at her in a gentle jibe.  

            "Not enough imagination, I'm afraid," S'kaerik grinned.

            "But even your family title – Dancer of the Eclipse – is poetic." Jarlaxle chuckled.  "Which reminds me.  How exactly do you cats get these titles?"

            "The normal way other creatures get family names, I guess.  One of my ancestors danced in an eclipse, hence, the title, which sounds considerably more impressive than it should be."

            "'Danced in an eclipse' is a flippant way of describing that ancestor's work, is it not?"

            "I suppose I shouldn't be too surprised.  You checked out my history?" S'kaerik raised an eyebrow at the mercenary.

            "It was highly interesting," Jarlaxle said mildly.  Words that, S'kaerik knew, could mean nothing whatsoever.

            "It was rather lurid, if you picked out that bit," S'kaerik said, realizing her voice had turned defensive, and then growing annoyed with herself.  Jarlaxle was sure to pick up that sentiment, and the accompanying embarrassment about her family history.

            "Has the Company looked into Narbondel as yet?" As she had expected, the mercenary changed the subject, never being the sort to risk giving unintentional offence by probing into sensitive subjects.  However, the raw, scrubbed sensation that washed over her whenever she felt that she'd again given too much away seeped in.  Self-doubt and speculation made her a bit more frank than she should have been. 

            "Yes… found some strange relics in there as well, before we cleaned it up and lighted it."

            Narbondel now glowed like a torch, illuminating much of the city around it, yet not being bright enough to hurt the eyes when one looked at it.  Gyers-sol light was useful in that way, though at first there was some uneasiness on whether Jarlaxle would protest, it turned out that for some reason none of them objected, or seemed uncomfortable in the brightness.  Perhaps some spell.

            "Relics?" 

            S'kaerik blinked, and then inwardly cursed her loose tongue.  "This and that.  Like much of the items found around the city."

            "Ah… it so happens that there are items of sentimental value that I put in Narbondel before leaving the city.  May I have a look at your Company's findings?"

            She'd expected that, and had to grope for an answer.  "Well, we'd need proof of your ownership… "

            "I can describe the items to you." 

            S'kaerik looked uncomfortable.  "Although that may have some credence I… "

            "I know," Jarlaxle said patiently.  "I meant the items as a whole are encased in translucent blue-grey crystal.  They cannot be too difficult to identify, and the crystal is a spell that is keyed to me."

            "Jarlaxle… please don't take this personally, but as an archaeologist that's still… "

            The mercenary leader laughed.  "What do you wish to find, my name carved on every single item?"

            S'kaerik smiled cautiously.  "Well, that would help."

            "There should be Bregan D'aerthe symbols on some of the items in that crystal, if I remember correctly.  It has been a while."

            "Your sense of understatement is overwhelming," S'kaerik chuckled.  "You have seen the rise of my civilisation, and you call that 'a while'?"

            "To a dark elf?"

            "True." S'kaerik agreed.  

            Jarlaxle straightened slightly, signifying that he was about to leave the scene.

            "Where are you going?" she inquired quickly.

            "To look at your Company's 'relics'," Jarlaxle tipped his hat to her.  "_Aluve', malla S'kaerik_.."  

            "Wait… I think I will accompany you," S'kaerik said quickly, getting up from the crate.  

            Behind the lowered brim of his hat, Jarlaxle permitted himself a small smile.  With S'kaerik around, he would less likely be challenged as he examined the findings.  There was something very important that he needed from the crystal.  Vaguely, he was surprised that the crystal was still in Narbondel – some of the other items had been valuable to the Lloth elite, and he'd rather expected them to at least attempt their retrieval.

            Perhaps the dark elves had really begun their degeneration those years ago.  The new, 'modern' ones could hardly be called dark elves by their ancestors of thousands of years ago – they were more tolerant, somewhat less prone to mindless cruelty.  Not to mention more and more of them were turning atheistic, preferring the precise impartibility of science or, in some cases, magic.  Contrary to what many Surfacers believed, dark elf technology could at least equal that of the surface world, though they lacked the large-scale plans of the humans and dwarves.  Trains into the Underdark, indeed! 

            The cities all used the old architecture, however.  There wasn't much sense giving out this much of an advantage, after all – and it was fun to try and hide their technological aptitude from the discerning outsiders.  Sometimes Jarlaxle thought that for beings that could enjoy a near-immortal span of life, or because of it, his kin were very easily amused.

**

            "That," Jarlaxle pointed confidently.

            The blue-grey crystal, perhaps about the size of the crate she had sat on earlier, squatted prominently between the other items they had retrieved from Narbondel.  As Jarlaxle wandered closer to it, it began to glow warmly, in soft blue hues that danced on the metallic colours of the other relics.

            The items inside the translucent crystal could barely be seen – here the beginnings of something that looked like a sword hilt, there a pendant, some sort of cloak, armour… and a lot of jewellery, some of which seemed extremely familiar.  

            S'kaerik vaguely remembered reading an extremely old set of accounts by the once extremely famous Calimport assassin Artemis Entreri, who had been a companion of Jarlaxle in the period where the mercenary had temporarily left command of Bregan D'aerthe to his subordinate to wander around the surface world.  Those bangles shaped into little Kara-Tur dragons biting their tails… and yes, that dagger certainly looked very familiar.  If Entreri's memoir was correct, it was no wonder that this crystal would have sentimental value to the mercenary, since the assassin was supposedly once his close friend.

            Jarlaxle laid his hand on it, almost like caressing some favoured pet, and the glow increased, flaring brightly once and enveloping the mercenary's hand.  When it cleared, all the items were stacked neatly on the ground – there were a surprising number of swords.  The mercenary delicately picked up two daggers and a necklace, wordlessly handing them to S'kaerik.  Helplessly, she looked at them, conscious for the first time that the Bregan D'aerthe mercenaries, though appearing casual, were all armed, and surreptitiously checking out the other Weyr-cat archaeologists in the room with apparent indifference.

            The symbols on them were unmistakable, however, and she sighed, knowing defeat when she saw it.  "They certainly seem genuine."

            Jarlaxle looked mildly mortified.  "Of course they are." He took them back from her and nodded to one of his mages.  "So… may I?"

            "You won't consider donating some items… ?"

            "All of these have value to me," Jarlaxle said somewhat distantly.  "It just would not… I am sorry, but I cannot allow you to display them for all to gawk at.  Perhaps if you – or some of your Company – would like to examine them, that would be very acceptable, but not public display."

            "I understand," S'kaerik nodded, watching as the mage somehow made the items disappear.  "May I examine them at this moment?"

            "Immediately?" Jarlaxle seemed amused now, the cold distance dissipating.  "You are very dedicated, Lady Cat!"

            "And you can stop teasing me."

            "Am I?"

            "I'd tell you to shut up, but your friends will probably kill me."

**

            "Good!" Jarlaxle laughed, as he sidestepped another swipe.  His age certainly hadn't diminished his speed, S'kaerik decided rather sourly, as she ducked a nasty slice and kicked at his kneecap fluidly.  He leaped back lightly, then leaped again as she followed the kick with a feint to his right, then slash at his unprotected face.  

            "How are they?" Jarlaxle inquired, gesturing with a jerk of his chin at the weapons she was trying out – metal claws, which resembled those described in the book she was translating.  A very close resemblance that gave her certain probably well founded suspicions about its origin.  They were very well made, and fitted her, but fast as they were, she still couldn't touch the mercenary, a point of frustration, since she wasn't considered slow by any standards by her kin.

            "Fast, but apparently not fast enough," S'kaerik informed him behind gritted teeth.  Blocking one of his swords, she managed to clip a bit of his other hand – sheathed by a glove – with a claw, and felt a surge of triumph quickly doused when the mercenary turned, using the momentum to bring up his leg in a tight arc kick which knocked her onto her back.  She rolled instinctively to one side and leapt to her feet, in time to avoid a stab attack, close enough to succeed in scything out his legs beneath him.

            Annoyingly enough, he recovered even more quickly than she had, somehow managing to land another kick, this time on her stomach, which knocked out her breath, and moving fluidly to his feet to attack again, as if nothing had happened.  She scrambled somewhat awkwardly out of the way of a slice, deflecting his wrist with the back of the claw, then proceeding with a twist of her hand to rip a hole in his gloves – he'd moved away too quickly for her to catch the flesh.  

            Frustration made her reckless – she attempted a roundhouse kick at his neck, but he avoided it, knocking her leg with the butt of one sword, throwing her off balance.  Recovering took a bit long – he tapped her neatly on her hip with the flat of a blade. 

            "I hope you're amused," S'kaerik told him dryly.  She'd known all along that he was only toying with her – Jarlaxle's skill was very well known, even in the Surface world.  

            "You're doing very well, considering you've not been practicing and you've certainly never used this weapon before," Jarlaxle said mildly.

            "It was your suggestion," S'kaerik reminded him.  

            "You agreed to the duel," Jarlaxle responded, happy to argue even whilst fighting, not even out of breath.  

            "Duel? Thrashing, more like it," S'kaerik corrected.  "I only agreed because you said you'd give me the claws if I did so."

            "With practice, you would be a fine warrior," Jarlaxle glided neatly out of a trap of feints that she made up on the go.

            "My profession happens to be looking at these relics, not using them to… oh, that was good… try and hurt people."

            "You find poring over dusty tomes and ancient artefacts more exciting than this?" 

            "Definitely," S'kaerik smiled, and took a swipe, knocking off his hat.  "Ha! Do I get to keep this too?"

            Jarlaxle hooked the hat with the tip of a sword and flipped it back on his head before she could catch it.  "Surely you do not intend to strip me of house and all, Lady Cat?"

            "I'd be quite happy to just disembowel you," S'kaerik growled, as another feint trap failed.

**

            Tired even after a bath, and still irritatingly sore, S'kaerik collapsed on her nest of pillows and contemplated the book next to her.  "Now I know what you mean," she muttered, and it wasn't certain what, or who, she was talking to.

--

Translation:

_Aluve', malla S'kaerik_: I leave you, most honoured S'kaerik.


	6. Part 3: Daermone

Part 3: Daermone

Translator's Note:  No reference to age was given in the book I had received, and inaccuracies are expected in an autobiography, especially when the writer develops his or her book all at once in a later stage of his life, instead of in a consistent journal.  Names were 'kindly' supplied by Bregan D'aerthe records as substitutes for the abbreviations, even as certain parties maintain that the writer was not Zaknafein, and the House was not Do'Urden.  The benefit of doubt should certainly be provided, though the 'friend' mentioned at the end of this would seem extremely… familiar… to readers versed in dark elven history.

            I felt the sour sensation residing in my chest slowly intensify as I carefully levitated up to and landed on the mouth of a higher tunnel.  No sounds around me – but I knew from (painful) experience that this was never actually an indication of whether or not I was alone here.  The Training Room was most unkind to anyone who let down his or her guard.  Using the term 'simulacrums' to describe the creatures inside it was somewhat misleading.  The ever-changing terrain in each session of Training were actual 'excerpts' from portions of the Underdark where Unseen were likely to go – such as known patrol routes of Spider Queen groups.  One would do well to familiarize himself with such places.

            The fact that I was visiting Training more and more often had nothing to do with my 'zeal' on becoming a full Unseen though.  I am not a being who particularly enjoys extra work.  Just that Training, in the mind-blanking rush of combat and escape and counters, tended to distract.  All the irrelevant emotions of jealousy and infatuation and bewilderment at female behaviour tended to go away, as they were trained to, not being particularly helpful when one was attempting to kill one's enemies.

            And now you see my predicament.

            I hate love.  I hate the loss of control over my feelings.  I hate the way the mind forms all sorts of wild and irrational conclusions on the actions of the object of one's infatuation – I hate the way it forms worse observations on those that she interacts with.  I _like_ Yvaer as a person, but whenever Naetalya starts draping herself on him I can feel the jealousy surge up in a murderous tide, and suddenly the hilts of my swords look extremely attractive to my hands.

            It has been nearly a year, and I do not understand where I stay in her eyes.  All her physical messages seem contradictory to her treatment of Yvaer – sometimes she touches me in ways that appear inviting – leaning against me or slipping a leg between mine, yet she does this to Yvaer as well!  Perhaps it is my total lack of any social experience in such matters, or just some innate insensitivity, but I have no particular idea how to react. 

            Ignoring her helped for a while, but it is particularly difficult to avoid your mentor for any length of time, and everything hurts now.  I wonder if she knows that the world is sharper when she's around – all things are clearer and more real.  I wonder if she knows that when she is away the world is darker and the heart aches with a dull unfocused pain.

            I wonder if Yvaer feels this too.  Sometimes he abruptly leaves the room whenever Naetalya and I are being 'close', and his mouth turns down slightly at one side – a definite sign of irritation.  Are they together or just friends? Are they…

            I inhaled sharply when something gripped my ankle and pulled, causing me to land ignominiously on my back.  Being stupid again, as usual…

            Somehow I managed to draw one sword, and, still cursing, sliced at the offending appendage.  To my relief it let go with a disgusting sound that reminded me of the death cries of a particularly vocal Lloth-worshipper who had an unfortunate accident with the sharp end of a sword.  A quick inspection of my boot revealed no incisions or tears that would indicate penetration and possible poison of the flesh.

            With a growl, I drew the other sword and rushed the creature, sweet adrenaline bursting in my mind and in the muscles, and everything was forgotten in swordplay.

            Later, after I had tracked down and murdered a few more creatures I felt mildly better, especially since I had forgotten the last part of my train of thought.  

            I was considering ending this Training session – an effect of nearly a decade in the outpost was an addiction to company, when I stepped on a trap.

**

            "_Vith_!" Now take this for ignominious.  

            It wasn't even a _magical_ trap.  

            Suspended upside-down in the air, one foot caught in a simple noose that must have been looped somewhere up at the ceiling and extended down to a pressure mechanism.  Stupid, stupid… the only small comfort I had was that as far as I could tell, it wasn't lethal.  Yet.

            I attempted to sheathe a sword upside-down, nearly cut off a part of my hip, then with the freed hand fumbled for my throwing knives.  All this rather hard to do when the blood is rushing to your head and you're furious at yourself for being so blind.  Not to mention the mess I'd have to clean up in my scabbard, but it was either that or dropping the sword.

            Knife out, forced myself to calm down – hooked my other leg over the tied one and with great effort I curled myself up – no alternative – letting go of the other sword and grabbing with that hand for my legs.  A careful throw, and suddenly the ground was rushing up to meet me.  I managed to turn a little in time, such that instead of receiving a painful knock to the head I merely had all the breath slammed out of me...and at least I didn't land on the sword on the ground.  Swearing somewhat incoherently, I rolled to try and find the dropped sword, and was just able to pause before I impaled my throat on the tip of a blade.

            Not a blade – claws, the metal claws of my mentor, who grinned a crooked grin at me once she had my full attention.  "_Vendui'Zaknafein_," she said somewhat mockingly, using an archly formal phrase of greeting as emphasis, "Sometimes I wonder if you ever listen to me about traps and the Underdark."

            I mumbled an apology, hoping my cheeks weren't burning in the infrared, and attempted to get up.  This was hampered by the fact that her katar did not move an inch.  

            The look of amusement on her face informed me that my cheeks _were_ on fire.

            "No, stay there.  Now you listen to me – when walking in the Underdark, pay attention to your surroundings for natural – or unnatural – things that could cause your untimely demise."

            "I was distracted," I growled, "And about to end Training."

            "_Do_ try not to be 'distracted' on a real mission, then.  You cannot end those."

            "I will not be."

            "Very confident words for someone who just fell prey to one of the most obvious tricks in the book, so to speak.  As followers of Vhaerun we have to learn some of the thieving skills, especially those that aid in our continued survival, and as far as I can see…"

            I tried to tune her out – the frustration about the situation between her and myself was still present - but the somewhat slightly unfocussed cast to my eyes must have been rather obvious to a seasoned teacher, because she carefully but firmly stepped on my hand. I bit on my lip to stifle the yelp of pain.

            "Which part of 'listen to me' do you not understand?" 

            I considered telling her about how I felt about her, but had the feeling that a declaration of love from someone currently in a position of extreme incompetence might be perceived as a joke, or worse, as something to be easily dismissed, so I kept quiet and endured the scolding.  

            There would be a later, I hoped.

**

            There wasn't one.  

            Without the courage to tell her, I let events drag on for a few years – perhaps one problem with elves is the feeling – somewhat correctly – that they always have a lot of time to do anything they want, since their lifespan is so long.

            There was a change in plans then – apparently Vhaerun had instructed me to return to Menzoberranzan, where I was to eventually – it would be arranged – join the Academy's Melee-Magthere and enter the noble class.  Whatever this would be for I had no idea, since the upper class males had even less freedom than the commoners, but since both my mentor and Yvaer seemed to believe this had its advantages, I was forced to agree.  Naetalya was of the opinion that I had learned as much as I could of the Dance from her, and as to traps, I merely had to pay attention.  I could relay information and communicate with them via some sort of steel cloak clasp which was in the common-enough shape of a deep-dragon's head.  

            Naetalya was silent on the way through the Paths back to Menzoberranzan, as was I – I was beginning to, belatedly, suspect that this entire get-up was not entirely Vhaerun's order, if in fact it was.  It could quite easily have been Yvaer's, since he was the one who 'received' most of Vhaerun's bidding.  If this were true, it would deal a somewhat severe blow on my belief in the gods, which years in Veldrin had failed to increase.  I believe in myself and in none other for my survival and welfare – taking full responsibility for whatever happens to me.  

            Yvaer and Naetalya had sensed this streak of – wilful, independence, perhaps – in me several years ago, and they had not then seemed to mind.  Conceivably this was what, in hindsight, caused them to send me away – not some juvenile jealousy on Yvaer's part - Naetalya could always cease her dangerous raids on Lloth-drow and wait for the next generation's Unseen to train.   Dark elves can live for a long time, after all.  Unseen too did not seem to serve any large purpose, in any case, and Unseen were not, as I had once thought, an incredibly important part of Vhaerun's scheme.  He was far too cautious to place too much in one mortal.  All his followers had a near equal importance in His eyes, even if it was just the mundane one of existing and carrying on his faith.  I had no such faith, even though I much preferred His teaching to Lloth's – but because I lacked the willingness to worship him, I would have been more useless in a way from any normal Vhaerun follower.  

            Perhaps they were sending me away to die.  What secrets could I release in any case, even under torture? I did not know the Paths to Veldrin – any Veldrin, in fact, and was at the moment disinclined to remember anything about them.  I was then frustrated and young enough to want a change in life that now I wished I had not taken.  

            Naetalya was not without her faults, and as a first love, would probably have ended rather quickly.  Older Unseen do not survive for very long once the 'replacements' are fully trained, in theory, and she herself had remarked on occasion that I was well prepared already.  It was not a talent for the blade – I believe that word destroys all the hard work one puts into learning a skill – but determination and a small obsession with the Dance.  She was rather prone to blindly following the dictates of her God, and often ran roughshod over others, even those concerned about her own welfare.  It may have just been infatuation instead of love – I was far too young at twenty years to fully understand love, come to think of it – and any association may have ended quickly.  She may not even have felt anything more than common desire for me at all.

            I wished then, however, and I wish now, that I had said something to her on the Paths back to Menzoberranzan, because it was the last I saw of her.

**

            Menzoberranzan's beauty had not changed in all the years I had spent in Veldrin.  I was quite surprised to learn that I missed it, but at that point in time all the stories about High Priestess cruelty and such were just stories that Mother had told me to frighten me.  Most of what I had seen of Menzoberranzan had been Mother and her work.  I felt the urge to go looking for her, and for the others, but Naetalya had warned me before she left not to do anything of the sort.  I was to walk in a straight line down this Manyfolk alley and mind my own business until 'business' came to me.  

            My identity was that of a son of a comfortably well-to-do merchant commoner family out looking for entertainment, which would explain the only lightly magicked armour and swords.  Dark elves love magic, and a wealthy son would have some, though nothing of particular power.  Of precisely what family, I was not to say unless severely questioned, during which, I was told, Vhaerun would provide.  That made me _rather_ determined to avoid such questioning.

            'Business' came rather quickly in the form of six House soldiers, a hooded, floating figure behind them.  It was rather obvious what rank the figure was, considering she was not making much effort to conceal the spider disk she stood on.  Sometimes I wonder why Matrons bother about going 'incognito', since even their attitude is a sharp hint to anything that isn't blind or deaf. 

            Relief that the narrowness of the alleyway only allowed two to come at me at any point in time was somewhat dispelled when two of them levitated over the others to try and get me from behind, and the remaining two levitated upwards as well, though this time with ranged weapons.  Bows, daggers.  

            Now this wasn't fair, though I'd expected them to try and deal with me in this manner.  Soldiers only make sport of the unarmed by going at them one at a time – with an armed creature, they tend to work together.  No charging him one at a time then – dark elves are normally cautious.  

            I willed a globe of darkness quickly on the ranged soldiers, then ducked a swing from one those in front of me, kicking him just below the knee joint such that he stumbled into his companion.  Curses from within the globe gave me a broad hint as to their approximate positions, and since as they weren't wearing face-guards, I threw two daggers in quick succession at their heads.  The third dagger was somewhat interrupted by the fact that the stumbled soldier had made a slash at me with his sword, and one of those behind me had thrust with a spear.  Jumping back, I noticed that one of the levitating soldiers, at least, seemed dead, a dagger having made a deep nest of his nose.  The other had moved out of the globe, and had only suffered a sliced cheek.  _Vith_.

            At least the Matron, whoever she was, was not helping, only watching the skirmish, or the fight would have been short, nasty, and lethal on my part.  Soldiers weren't particularly valuable to some Houses, after all, since they have quite a few of them. With her attitude I guessed her to be at least in the top twenty-five houses in running for the Council.

            I feinted with the third, as if to throw it at one of the soldiers nearly on top of me, but quickly changed direction as he raised his shield in defence.  This dagger hit the soldier right at the back in the eye. Yes!  

            Not very _good_ soldiers, though.  Probably not near top ten. 

            Drawing my swords quickly, I realized that given the Matron made no move to interfere, I was behind all the soldiers, and only two could come at any time, unless they tried levitation again.  Parrying a slash such that a soldier's sword nearly hit the adamantite chain-mail chest of the other soldier, I made use of the flinch and the oath of the other to attempt my own attack.  I slashed at his face, knowing he would jerk back or dodge, in which case – ah – a gash above his eyes would cause blood to obscure his vision briefly enough for me to twist quickly away from the attack by his companion, past the shield, and make a quick jab at the exposed part of his arm, severing the correct artery such as to render it useless.  Not unlike mages with their spells, a good fighter needs a good memory for anatomy.

            Stupid – wasn't concentrating on the other two… a blow from above.  Dodging caused me to nearly lose my footing in a quick scramble to the right, and I blocked a slice from the other levitated soldier.  Everything was confused, and all the soldiers now looked the same, but the world was quicker and alive now that… 

            Pushing aside a blind swipe from the eye gashed spear-soldier, I managed to – barely – parry a flurry of slices from above and to my left, the shield soldier having moved in front of the spear in defensive.  

            Another few parries – not all successful, now had a few gashes which were making my hands slippery and stinging - and an opening – had been pushing the soldier on my right to slash lower and lower, and now I gave him the tip of my sword through his mouth.  An attempt at the neck would have theoretically given him just enough time to recover.  Recovering from that earned me a slice from above that I only scarcely saw since I was attempting to dodge the spear, which just barely hit my shoulder plate in a nasty chime instead of muscles on my arm, so I returned the favour with a jab at the uncovered – _stupid armour design_ – arm joint.   

            At this point in time the Matron decided to cut losses.  "Stop fighting," she commanded.  Her remaining soldiers obediently – with great relief, I should add – ceased.  I considered cutting them down just for fun, but guessed that the Matron would not take kindly to that, probably to the tune of a snake-whip lashing or worse.  Soldiers, even pathetic ones, cost money.

            "What is your name, commoner?" she asked coolly.

            I bowed, hoping it would appear obsequious enough.  "Zaknafein, _malla Ilharess_."

            "Who are you?"

            "Just a son of a merchant, _malla Ilharess_, who has seen fit to find teachers for me in the ways of weapons."

            "Are you in the Academy?"

            "No, _malla Ilharess_.  No commoner can enter without House sponsorship."

            The Matron nodded at this.  "Come with me.  You now belong to House Do'Urden.  Your family will be honoured."

            "Yes, Matron."  

            She shot me a sharp glance, and I hoped she did not detect the mild contempt in my voice – though if she did, she gave no indication.  "You will join Melee-Magthere's next intake."

**

            House Do'Urden was at present without a proper weaponsmaster – that is to say, a skilled one.  The previous, supposedly competent one – according to Matron Daermone Do'Urden, at least – had come to an end in an accident involving stupidity, a weakness for gambling, debts, and collectors.  As to what happened to his corpse…

            "Do you want to see his resurrected, tortured body in the dungeons? As a source of inspiration." I wasn't particularly sure if this was black humour on her part, because her face remained an indifferent mask.

            "Uh.  No thank you, _malla Ilharess_,"

            "Then go and help our current inept weaponsmaster.  You cannot be declared a weaponsmaster until you pass Melee-Magthere, but you might as well go and look at the problem, then inform me.  If he tries any sort of ah… encouragement on you for a positive report, kill him." 

            "Do you want the body resurrectable?"  Resurrection took a lot of effort, and normally Lloth-priestesses couldn't be bothered, but you'd never know.  It required the body in more-or-less one piece to be successful.  

             Now there was a ghost of a smile, though a somewhat cruel one.  "I could like you, Zaknafein."

            "Could?"

            "One thing you should stop doing is asking so many questions, youngling." 

            Matron Daermone was definitely one of the more-patient Matrons I had met.  But then, I did not have much experience with Matrons around this tier.  At twenty-third House, the Matron was in the strange position of having to conserve her troops, yet show to the rest of Menzoberranzan society that her House finances were good enough for her to afford others if she needed to.  She settled for – as I later found out – occasional bouts of excess followed by periods of 'savings', as she put it.  Mouthing off was mostly only allowed during the 'savings' periods, and one did not need to have a mage's brain to figure out her more or less stable times.  

            A hint? It coincided with a female's monthly… 'problems'. 

**

            The current weaponsmaster _was_ inept, but his saving grace was that he knew it and made no secret of it – at least to me.  He did not have much hope of improving, which was not particularly his fault, since it was rather difficult to get good, trustworthy teachers outside Academy.  He had grown up off the streets, and we got along, although a little cautiously at first. 

            He was shorter than me, and seemed dwarfed by the wide Do'Urden training room, and from the way his sharp, bright eyes constantly looked around the room; I guessed that he'd been born commoner, probably lived the first part of his life as a beggar-thief urchin.  He was thin, but there were hints of muscle under the chainmail and surcoat sleeves.  When his eyes settled on me, there was no surprise in his expression. 

            "You my replacement?" As I found out later, his 'street' slang tended to come out – to the Matron's irritation – whenever he was under stress.  Matrons like to pretend their weaponsmasters are of noble blood, even if they patently are not.  One does not require noble blood to be good at something, in any case.

            "No, an assistant." 

            He looked me up and down, and then said, "Draw your weapons."

            "I was not told to fight you."

            "You better not be."  There was just the faintest twitch at his mouth, and later I realized why – he had known of the conversation I'd had with the Matron.  One thing I learnt from him later was the necessity of keeping a spy network within the House, even a small one.  However, I did not really put it into practice… due to stupidity and well, my being far too lazy to maintain it.  I would probably regret it in the future. 

            Shrugging, I drew my swords, and stood in a basic stance rather automatically.

            "You good with those?"

            "Fair."

            He chuckled.  "You _are_ my replacement.  Can see it." 

            "At the moment I am just your assistant."

            "If you say so." He gestured vaguely.  "You sheathe those things now, then tell me what you wan' to do.  My name is Soelisk."

            "I am known as Zaknafein."

            "I think you _were_ told to fight me," Soelisk said slowly, then sighed.  "Want to get it over with?"

            "Do you want to survive this?" I asked curiously.

            He grinned.  "Ain't that what we all want to hear in a fight."

**

            "So?" Matron Daermone asked.  She sat in her throne and was reading a tome when I respectfully knocked – and was allowed entrance - at the Chapel.

            "He can improve, _malla Ilharess_."  I hoped so.  What Soelisk had shown a great knowledge in was in fighting 'dirty', which he would naturally have learnt on the streets.  However, if you knew what to watch for, you normally could avoid getting incapacitated by it – fists and feet are no match against an opponent skilled in blade _and _unarmed.

            "Make sure he does, until you come back from Melee-Magthere.  In the meantime, train the soldiers with him.  Have you taught before?"

            "No, _malla Ilharess_."

            "Then you would find that being good at something and being able to teach that something to another are two very different positions.  Learn how to teach."

            "Yes, _malla Ilharess_."

            "I should probably start with the threats, but you know most of them, and this tome is just turning interesting."

            "_Asanque, malla Ilharess_."  I was getting tired with the obsequiousness.  Any more and I would probably have started oozing oil.

            "Go away, Zaknafein.  Try to be useful."

            "Very well."

            "You forgot the 'malla Ilharess' there, youngling." She smirked when I looked sharply at her.  "_And_ the part about not meeting a Matron's eyes.  I believe I will have to watch you when you show teeth along with your claws…" she returned to her book, dismissing the matter.  "Tell the guards outside to show you your room."

**

            "Are there other members of this House?" I asked Soelisk after one session where I watched him teach.  He was a passable teacher – he knew how to make the soldiers work, and when to let them take a break and still get on their good side.  Influence is a large part of teaching – ability at the subject is not even near half of it.  

            Soelisk had stripped to his pants, and was busying himself by towelling off.  He seemed to have this rigid schedule for bathing – once a day – which occasionally annoyed the fastidious Matron.  Come to think of it, most females _are_ fastidious – at least about bathing.  I never really understood it.

            "Two daughters, and one interchangeable patron.  Currently he's a mage.  You've probably seen him before – name of Y'faen."

            "Nose in the air?"

            "Yeh." Soelisk smirked.  "I've 'accidentally' run him through sooner, 'cept that mages are tricky as cave rats, an' the Matron may get touchy."

            "I have not seen the daughters."

            "Not surprising – they are, at the moment, students in Arach-Tinilith.  Matron Daermone is a bit hot about that – makes her the only Priestess at House to defend." 

            "No attacks yet?"

            "No, but we're expecting one." 

            "When?"

            Soelisk shrugged.  "The daughters will come back if needed, and raids normally take place at end-cycle.  Sometimes they come back for visits.  Scheming things… you can just see the ambition leaking out of their ears."

            "Looking for a takeover?"

            "Smart enough to wait till they're full-trained to High Priestess before trying, I think.  Especially the younger – Malice Do'Urden.  A looker, but damned smart – don't let her near you.  Elder is Reprise Do'Urden, cruel and somewhat more possessed of that thing females have against us males."

            "In a lethal way?"

            "Could say that.  I don' think the males are _dead_, but they look dead after whatever she does." 

            "Ah."

            "You be careful," Soelisk winked.  The scars, thin white traceries across his cheek, crawled up, like worms.  "You still got a pretty face.   They'd both be after you – and you're good enough at those…" he pointed at my swords, "For them to consider keeping you as a long-term investment.  Stay out of their way in holidays, my advice to you."

            "You'd follow them instead of Matron Daermone?"

            "I prefer the current Matron," Soelisk shrugged.  "But you need to prepare, yes? No Matrons last forever.  It's that way."

            "Oh, another thing about Malice," Soelisk added, as I was heading out.  "She's a 'reader."

            I hate mind-readers. 

**

            It was sometime before the new Intake started and after the high point of her 'savings' that Matron Daermone decided to 'relieve' me of my 'sexual ignorance', and taught me something else about dark elven females.  

            Though she still persisted in referring to me mainly as 'youngling', the inference about her age was not really to be believed.  Unless Matrons decide to take on certain pressurizing tasks such as controlling Zin-carla, they tended not to show their age, and Daermone was very attractive.  It was not hard to deduce where Malice got her looks from, if Soelisk had been correct in his description.  

            Y'faen, as far as I could tell, could not be bothered.  Matron Daermone had taken several patrons in a few years until she came to one who was not given to occasional bouts of jealousy about the real or perceived threat to his position.  Y'faen, being the only mage of capability that the House had, was at the moment indispensable, and he knew it.  He also knew that Daermone was not particularly disposed to criticism directed at her, and was intelligent enough not to do anything that she did not tell him to. 

            One thing that Soelisk mentioned only later was that both daughters also had children of their own – though since their mothers were not Matrons, the grandchildren of Daermone were seen as non-noble.  Malice's daughter in particular made me feel uneasy whenever I saw her.  She was built like a non-drow – though suggest _that_ in front of her if you do not feel like living.  Briza, she was called, and she had an attitude towards males that even normal dark elves found extreme.  Suffice to say, she took no lovers, even though she was quite a bit older than me, and if not for Matron Daermone, would probably have started killing off all the male soldiers in House Do'Urden.  

            Malice had another child, a quiet boy slightly younger than I was, called Nalfein.  Nalfein was gifted with that particular intelligence common to quite a few mages which causes them to excel in magic and then probably end up getting killed by a blade due to neglect.  Not to mention mages somehow eventually end up believing that because of magic, they are more or less invincible.  At the moment, under instruction, Y'faen was training Nalfein for Sorcere, and I was rather sure he would do well – if he survived.  I had no doubt that if Reprise eventually won the power struggle, both Briza and Nalfein would be murdered.

            Reprise had one daughter, older than Briza, loyal and nearly a mirror image (according to Soelisk) of her mother.  

            "Saole, she's near enough to Reprise to scare you," he'd confided once.  "They move the same, think the same, hell, they even talk the same.  Saole, she likes to fright me – anyone that is - that way – come up behind me then talk in Reprise's voice.  Bloody trouble, that girl."  Though the way his eyes softened whenever he talked about Saole pushed open doors for speculation.  

            Whether or not Saole returned his feelings was none of my business – privately, I thought it unlikely.  Saole, from the glimpses I had seen of her, had a symmetrical, sensitive face with a stately beauty enhanced by her graceful figure, softly framed by hip-length hair.  Soelisk had said Malice was prettier, but I did not particularly care.  Being involved with one female at a time was complicated enough, and Saole had certainly never shown any interest in me other than vague curiosity.  What made it more unlikely was that Soelisk was neither a good weaponsmaster nor was he handsome – the scars on his face were permanent, and his build was not particularly impressive.  It was a hereditary thing, apparently – Soelisk rather liked it.  He could, he said, eat whatever he liked and not need to work it off.  

            A word of advice for noble males – unless very powerful, do not let yourself get out of shape, even for mages.   Drow females have a rather terminal reaction to obesity that starts at revulsion and goes down from there.  I've heard that such a reaction exists – though at a lesser extent, and vice versa – amongst male and female surfacer humans, not that it really matters.

**

            "Tomorrow you join Melee-Magthere." Matron Daermone told me.

            "I know, _malla Ilharess_." That earned me a Look. 

            "The teachers there will not tolerate your occasional insolence, so do try and keep quiet."

            "Yes, _malla Ilharess_."

            "Try and come back alive."

            "I have no intention of dying, _malla Ilharess_."

            A chuckle.  "Few of us do." 

            That, at least was true.  Most dark elves – sane ones, at any rate – have an encompassing obsession with life that allow them to endure all that fate throws at them and still be able to wake up for the next cycle, never to try and leave their lives as it is for new ones, because they do not want to die.

            It is not cowardice, in my opinion, to want to stay alive.  Life is always worth fighting for, especially if it is your own.  Only the older elves tend to understand the true value of life – younglings like I was then did not truly see it as a priority, compared to other possessions.  Wealth, strength, love, power, freedom - mean nothing when you are dead, for even undeath in itself is a type of prison.  

            I learnt _that_ from a 'friend' I made in the Academy.

--

Notes and References:

_Vendui'Zaknafein_: I/we greet you, Zaknafein

_Malla Ilharess_: honoured Matron

_Asanque_: As you wish


	7. Intersection

Intersection

            "If you _must know…" Jarlaxle's voice had an odd blend which suggested at anticipated amusement.  Sensing this – S'kaerik had, after all that time spent in his company – learnt some of the more rudimentary word cues – she mentally steeled herself. _

            "It is for the general…"

            Jarlaxle shot her a look that just verged on being a stare, without the impropriety involved in the latter, such that S'kaerik trailed off quickly before she pushed him into changing the subject.  Talking to wilful dark elves was occasionally seriously trying on her patience, and not more than once she agreed on some levels as to the Matrons' insistence on males having to seek permission before speaking.  

            Jarlaxle did not like – did not _seem to like, anyway - being lectured on 'For the Greater Public', especially more than once.  It was just that - well, the mercenary leader __should know the reasons for why S'kaerik required more detail.  Sometimes she suspected that the dislike was too open to be wholly felt, and either he was trying to tell her something, or it was amusing to see her hastily try and rescue the conversation._

            It was probably the latter.

            "That is to say," S'kaerik said hurriedly, despite her doubts, "I was simply curious.  I suspect that you are aware of the human metaphor involving us felines and that particular state of mind."  She grinned quickly.  "Please indulge me."

            "You have fenced me into a corner with your smile," Jarlaxle offered extravagantly, smirking briefly when S'kaerik snorted.  "Very well – I was going to ask you to leave out those sections of his diary because they all involved… sexual escapades."

            "You would be surprised as to…" S'kaerik had automatically started on her pre-planned reply, before her ears caught up.  "…what?"

            "As I said," Jarlaxle said mildly.  "This would be why you were unable to locate the words in your translation device."

            "Oh.  Oh dear," S'kaerik managed, trying to look very solemn, immediately failed, then let out a burp of badly-stifled laughter.  

Jarlaxle waited calmly until she regained her former poise.  "So would you still try to translate it?"

"I'm quite sure _you would still know those um, words." S'kaerik smirked._

"I must beg your pardon," Jarlaxle said with dignity, raising an eyebrow.

"You must, must you?" 

"Are you teasing me?"

"Am I?" S'kaerik noticed the sides of Jarlaxle's mouth twitching down for a brief second, a danger signal that the conversation was beginning to cease being amusing.  "Sorry about that.  Unfortunately, I would have to submit a full set of translations, so if you do indeed know nothing of the words, I may have to scout around for aid."

"I could _try to remember," Jarlaxle conceded, "But of course I have had nothing to do with such language." He winked._

"Oh, but of course," S'kaerik said dryly.  "It would be left out of copies for general circulation.  I hope."

"If your… translations were ever to be popular, it would have been because of sections such as this," Jarlaxle pointed out.  "The 'public', as you insist on terming the rest of the world, in general prefers such stories."

"Even the dark elven public?"

Jarlaxle let out a derisive chuckle.  "Despite what you may believe, dark elven society is consists mainly of commoners, who may have a higher intelligence average than the human, dwarven, or Weyr-cat 'public', but do not act that much different.  They buy and sell their money, possessions, time, skills, lives, and each other."

"That is an interesting way of looking at society."

"A neutral statement that yet hints at possible approval.  You_ are starting to speak like __Ilythiiri," Jarlaxle smiled._

"You just demonstrated your 'neutral statement with possible approval' right there."

"I _am, unfortunate as it may be at times, __Ilythiiri, Lady Cat."_

"It's quite hard to ignore.  Um, I would like to ask you a potentially inflammatory question, and you don't have to answer…"

"If anything, it should prove amusing, Lady Cat," Jarlaxle said with mock graciousness.  Ignoring his tone, S'kaerik plunged on.

"If your… er, the dark elven society of Lloth was as non-different as you say, why did it not fight to change its form of government? The main bulk of it must have been the common-born, and they should have noticed that despite magic and all that they could overcome the matriarchal system."

Jarlaxle seemed thoughtful as he leaned into his chair, and in the silence that followed S'kaerik looked at his unreadable face, half-obscured by his hat, and wondered if she should have asked the question.  It was definitely not one that she would have attempted to ask Drizzt, if he were still alive.  'Ballistic' may have been a good word to describe the probable outcome.

She considered breaking the silence with a reassurance that his answer was not required, but it may have seemed impatient and rude.  Cats hated to be seen as rude, so she simply occupied herself by furtively glancing at her surroundings.  With the continued expansion Bregan D'aerthe had reclaimed its former main offices, though the current group under Jarlaxle stilled resided in their building near the Company's offices (and her rooms).  She had been on a tour of the building, provided by Jarlaxle, and had been sketching some of the rooms.  Devices that took 'photographs', or miniature, perfect (if one-coloured) pictures of rooms, were still not available in enough bulk to the Company such as to allow them in a hazardous Underdark journey, so she contented herself to trying to commit the area and layout to memory.

It was proving difficult.  S'kaerik suspected that Jarlaxle had been behind the plan – or original idea, at least – of the Bregan D'aerthe offices.  They were such a rabbit-warren of corridors which bore strong resemblances to each other that a casual visitor such as herself would be quite lost if she had tried to explore the area by herself in a second visit.

Still, though the decorations had been removed – if there had been any – the Bregan D'aerthe buildings were probably some of those still in good condition.  Perhaps spells were involved, but S'kaerik did not think so – it would be too much effort, and Jarlaxle had demonstrated before that Bregan D'aerthe consisted of dark elves, not of buildings or objects, which could be rebuilt or done without.  Apparently an incident of quite some magnitude had occurred once which had solidified this conviction, and S'kaerik believed that it probably had to do with the Shard which had once been in his possession. 

Or perhaps it had to do with the War of the Mask.  It was quite hard to tell, and the answer was rather likely to be a combination…

She snapped out of her reverie once Jarlaxle gave a subtle inclination that he was going to speak, by inclining his head forward a fraction.

"The will of Lloth was very strong then," Jarlaxle pointed out, "And she could walk as an avatar among the people.  They could not 'fight' against that.  Fleeing would have been useless – no cities were close enough for them to survive the journey in the Underdark.  Most of the soldiers were commoners, true, but by default they belonged to Houses."

"A revolution – perhaps that is what you spoke of – also requires a substantial amount of trust, as well as a good leader.  There were no good leaders – all with talent in magic or weapons were quickly seen and 'acquired' by Matrons.  But perhaps the largest reason was that the idea, at least, of a matriarchal society was innately logical to half of Lloth's dark elven society due to the chance of their gender."

S'kaerik furrowed her brow unconsciously.  "But the common-born dark elven females – were they not treated as mere commoners?"

"One thing females always want is to have – or see -  equality with males, or better," Jarlaxle said dryly, "Which is, on hindsight, not _too demanding, since all they have to do is close their legs and the future of that race would be quite non-existent."_

S'kaerik blushed, and then scolded herself mentally for doing so.  "Ah…"

"But I could be wrong," Jarlaxle shrugged.  A short silence suggested to S'kaerik rather belatedly that conversation was back to her side.

"Well, you have the qualification of being a dark elf, in understanding your kin."

"But you are female." Jarlaxle said, elegant fingers gently teasing at one of the long diatryma feathers that hung from the band of his hat.

"Your meaning being…?" 

"Females share an elemental similarity that does not seem affected by race," Jarlaxle stated.

"As you have said before," S'kaerik found the way he curled the tip of the feather around a finger, and then unwound it, mildly hypnotic.  

"Would you not think so?"

"I cannot pass judgement, because I am too young as yet to meet all the races in the world," S'kaerik grinned, seeing a way out that combined humility and possible praise or insult.  The phrase 'Unlike you' hung unspoken in the still air with the penetrating presence of an unwelcome visitor.

"I seem to have walked into that one," Jarlaxle admitted, with a wink.

"Each time you say that I start getting worried," S'kaerik muttered. 

            "About what? My encroaching senility?"

            "It seems to be a pattern of behaviour with you that once you start insulting yourself your scheming mind is preparing another evil situation for me to flounder into."

            "An 'evil situation'? You wound me," Jarlaxle inserted enough melodrama into the words to lend it a disarming amount of humour.

            S'kaerik chuckled.  "I wish.  I still haven't really recovered from that 'duel' of yours.  That, before you ask, is a prime example of your 'evil situations'."

            "Ah, you are anticipating my thought already.  I must be slowing down considerably."

            "Talking to you gives me a headache whenever I operate on the same level of conversation as I do with everyone else, as I have slowly realized."

            "So, what 'evil situation' do you think I have in store for you this time?" Jarlaxle was definitely feeling playful today, S'kaerik noticed.  He hadn't even changed the subject yet.

            Wait… he just did.  

            She could feel the beginnings of another headache.

            "If it's another 'duel', I'm not agreeing."

            "You have great potential."

            S'kaerik shifted in the soft chair to a more comfortable position.  "To my knowledge, 'great potential' used in terms of fighting generally just means that the winner wishes to have another chance at beating up the loser, with an excuse for using more force."

            "You must have very great knowledge indeed, then."  A smile.

            "And now you're trying to egg me into fighting with you just to try and scratch off that smirk.  Sorry.  Although I must admit the temptation is great, my sides are still protesting from the last time."

            "Truly?"

            "You shouldn't try to look innocent.  It doesn't work."

**

            Back in her rooms, S'kaerik leafed through the heavy black diary again.  It was not as thick as it had appeared when she had first received it – the writer having apparently jotted down memories only at a certain point in time, and all at once, and as such recollections go, had left out a lot of material.  Quite a few of the pages had turned out to be rather badly done doodles, some of which were too scrawled to make out.  It was quite irritating, but S'kaerik knew rationally that she could not expect the writer, having a full-time job, to all appearances, to painstakingly write down all the details of his life and conceal the result.  It would probably fill whole rooms, knowing dark elven lives.

            But really, some of the material he chose to put down… S'kaerik wished he had instead given more space to descriptions of rituals and places, but she conceded that as a warrior-type with no particular calling for the pen, the fact that he had kept a memoir was surprising enough.

            He had stopped writing quite abruptly, with no obvious reason why.  He had definitely been alive, since he had stopped at a point before the birth of his son.  Had he concealed it? Or just lost interest? It was hard to tell… and Jarlaxle continued to feign ignorance of the whole situation, even though he had 'let slip' at times that he _was in the book, and the author __was Zaknafein.  Or perhaps he had done so just for the added amusement of watching the mounting, confused frustration on S'kaerik's face at trying to sort out the mixed signals. _

            Tomorrow would be busy, though – enough time had passed such that a workable if somewhat rudimentary rail had been set up for a much larger team of humans, dwarves and equipment to arrive on the scene to accelerate the process of restoration and construction of a publicly-safe rail system.  More dwarves than humans this time, though the dwarves had to pull quite a few strings, apparently.  There had been a substantial duergar community in the Manyfolk district that had left distinctive flavours to some of the architecture, and as usual the dwarves – red and grey - were curious. 

            S'kaerik rather liked the gruff, stout race, especially since they didn't bother to make cat jokes.  To them, or at least, the current generation of dwarves, all that did matter was how good you were at your occupation.  If it involved mining, gold, or artefacts, that was even better.  S'kaerik's involved all three, though without the wealth implied in the latter two, but dwarves respected historians.  History to them was some kind of racial obsession, sort of like that of wood elves for the colour green even where inappropriate or not required.

            She liked Dwarves better than Elves in general – even Dark Elves.  Elves tended to have some sort of inbuilt, confident arrogance that even the best at concealing could not really hide.  It was no secret that they considered their race the best, and were quite reserved with outsiders – it took years and years to earn trust, normally.  Dwarves merely required you not to make short jokes, to be relatively decent and non-hostile, and not to criticise their drinking habits.  It did not really matter – there were much fewer surface Elves left outside their kingdoms – closed to non-Elves, and unlike the Dwarves, they still held their grudge against the Dark Elves such that the very thought of visiting the Underdark was somewhat revolting.  

            Dark Elves, rather similarly, were never really interested in visiting the Surface – Jarlaxle said he found it 'interesting' but not so 'interesting' as to make him 'consider it a place to stay'.  They were better adapted to the Underdark, where they still were in enough positions of power to have a large share of the trading business with the Surface, which they did not want to jeopardize by openly declaring further hostilities with a Surface race that still held some sway.  They seemed to have collectively decided to ignore their Surface cousins after the Elder Gods (as they called Lloth, Vhaerun and the others) were gone.  Having no religious incentive to make Surface raids, which did not have actual benefit and were really quite inconvenient to organise, the drow decided pragmatically to just stop harassing them.  

            Especially since the Elves of the Surface had mainly withdrawn to their own places of power.  Raids could succeed, but at even greater inconvenience than before, and…

            With a yawn, S'kaerik realized she was drifting off.  Carefully, she shut the book, and placed it outside the 'nest' before curling up to sleep.

**

            Neither Jarlaxle nor any of Bregan D'aerthe were anywhere to be found at the unloading platform where the equipment train was to arrive.  All the dwarves were there, though – the Company had insisted.  Most of the humans and Weyr-cats had vacated the immediate vicinity so as not to crowd the area into total inefficiency, so S'kaerik just watched everything from the roof of the housing area, along with some of the other residents.

            Nik'anoi, another Weyr-cat operative, sat next to her, staring off into the distance.  "I hope nothing wrong happens," she said again.

            "To a train full of armed dwarves disallowed to drink any alcohol for the whole trip?"

            "You have a point there."

            "I would be surprised if the train arrived now – it's still too early."

            "None of your Dark Elf friends to be seen," Nik'anoi said, looking around.

            "I would not be surprised – dwarves and Dark Elves still only get along on the most basic terms."

            "Profit."

            "In a word, yes.  And I do not think they _are my friends, or at least, not in the way we normally take 'friend' to signify."_

            "What do you mean?" Nik'anoi asked, blinking.  In dark vision, the little light that came from the lamps hung around the buildings reflected off her eyes, giving the impression of perfect gold discs.

            "I don't know any of them well, other than Jarlaxle, and that Dark Elf's degree of friendship seems to be based on how amused he is by you," S'kaerik said, watching as the dwarves shouted at each other amiably on the platform, still arguing about how the train should unload.  The argument had been on in strength since the Company had sent word of the train's arrival.  It gave the dwarves something other to do than think of getting drunk.  No alcohol to be found in Menzoberranzan.  "He thinks I'm very funny, or something."

            "How's the translation going?" It was common knowledge now that S'kaerik had her paws on a very valuable set of documents.  

            "Okay, I guess.  I hit a block yesterday, though." S'kaerik described the 'translation problems', and then had to steady Nik'anoi before her friend laughed so hard she fell off the roof in an un-catlike manner.

            "So are you going to publish it?" Nik'anoi asked mischievously, when she'd calmed down a little.  "Think of all our professors in the University!"

            "Hah, I'd just do some creative editing." 

            "Be _very creative."_

            "I didn't mean it that way."

            "I didn't say anything about what 'that way' implied."

            "Neither did I."

            There was a pause.  Then Nik'anoi said, "You sound like a Dark Elf."

            "I think it's some sort of disease."

**

            The train finally arrived, to the relief of everybody, and the generally loud atmosphere of one-too-many dwarves became even more boisterous.  It seemed to S'kaerik that every dwarf had to introduce the other dwarf to every other dwarf, even when handling the equipment out of the secured train.  Short jokes were loudly exchanged.  Apparently when a dwarf passes a short joke, it's incredibly funny (at least for other dwarves), but when a non-dwarf does so, it's an instant invitation for an axe-fight.  Strange but true.

            "Do you think we should help?" Nik'anoi asked after a while.

            "No, they're having too much fun."

            There was a healthy mix of female dwarves, though the only way you could tell under the armour was the lack of a beard jutting out between the helmet and the breastplate.  They did their share of the hard labour – apparently they had the same strength as the males.  Dwarves were the only sentient race she could think of at the moment where the females were physically equal and behaved exactly like the males, and she wondered vaguely what Jarlaxle thought of it.  Certainly there was no shortage of dwarven female heroes or chiefs.  Their ballads were mainly about wars, where, since female dwarven names were the same as male dwarven ones, it was rather hard to tell what gender the hero was, since dwarves thought mentioning the gender was unimportant compared to what the hero's or heroine's axe looked like.

            A fresh wave of short jokes erupted as a few dwarves staggered while carrying out a heavy-looking box.  Laughter and the obligatory name-calling ensued.  Everyone wished they had ale.  Everyone invited everyone else to his or her mother's house once they were out of the Underdark for his or her mother's cooking.  

            S'kaerik shook her head.  Long span of dwarven life or not, it was no wonder that dwarves never paid attention to any coming of age issues.  Maybe they never _did 'come of age'._

            Somehow, that revelation put her in mind of Jarlaxle.


	8. Part 4: MeleeMagthere

Part 4

Melee-Magthere

            I do not recall what I originally felt as I ascended the stone stairway and beheld Tier Breche for the first time.  There was certainly some anticipation, but I remembered – or fancied I remembered – feeling boxed-in, somehow imprisoned, from all that atmosphere.  Students for Sorcere and Melee-Magthere were wandering up at their own pace, and once at the main square, were generally milling around whilst still being able to keep an eye on most of their potential classmates.  The tension was such that I nearly expected the air to hum in low menace.  No females around – their enrolment date was somewhat later, such that they would not have to rub shoulders with all the dirty male masses. 

            My classmates – those who seemed to be warriors, anyway – looked unremarkable – all of normal sizes, no dramatic scars or anything of the sort.  No actual House insignias that I could recognize from sight, which meant none of them were of the top ten Houses – my memory could not contain every single insignia in this city, so I just retained the important ones.

            What had Soelisk said of this? Some advice… ah yes, 'Try not to make fast acquaintances within your year.'  He had impressed on me the importance of this, due to the Melee at the end-of-year, where sentimental ties would be a hindrance.  Soelisk had a rare sense of perception, such that he often had priorities that seemed strange at first but made sense later, and I had understood quickly that it was this perception which kept him around the House, not through any real sense of convenience, though indeed that had some part to it.   He was the one male that the Matron spoke to often on matters of the House, and though she gave no outward indication she did listen to his opinion.  _And the information from his private spy network, but that was less well-known. _

            None of them _did look friendly, nor would I have expected them to.  None were visibly armed – most knew that their weapons would be confiscated anyway.  This year's batch of students was more sensible than quite a few other years that I had to face later in my life.  It seems to be a current trend to bring weapons, despite the fact that they __would be confiscated and the Masters would have to waste time searching the armed student in case of concealed items._

            A bell, its tone deep and rich, like the hue of wine – we were to go.  I followed the group heading towards the ugly Melee-Magthere building.  Whoever did the architecture design must have been on drugs. 

            Some Masters met us at its high, unornamented gates and read out the roll, on which we acknowledged our existence with a raised hand.  Their faces were impassive, with the sharp eyes and curious poise of experienced warriors, even if some wore robes instead of armour.  All were armed, weapons sheathed in expensive-looking scabbards, wands half-concealed by the folds of their robes or surcoats, all of which bore the plain but impressive insignia of the Warrior School.  Their bracers gleamed dully in grey, dead hues, reflecting the faint light from Sorcere's mage-illuminations.  

            So far, nothing interesting.  Soelisk doubted they could teach me much further about the Dance, though he said they would have points worth listening to involving group fighting.  Dark Elves have an _exhilarating idea of fighting in groups that require you to pay attention to both the enemy and your allies, since both could switch sides at any moment._

            When we passed inside to the iron darkness of Melee-Magthere, all the Masters save one wandered off into the many arched, wide corridors, and this one waited until all of us were quiet until he began his speech.  I have successfully managed to forget what he said, so here is an edited version of my own speech to first-years when I later became a Master – the content would have been basically the same anyway.

            "Welcome all of you twenty-five year olds to Melee-Magthere. If you are all careful and listen to the Masters, then you will not be included in the dropout rate as a statistic.  Since as yet we do not allow commoners – perhaps in some future time – to join, there are few enough of you such that we will be watching all of you _very closely.  One small slip and you will provide us with momentary amusement as we watch you try to crawl out of the drider pits.  No weapons, so those of you who still have concealed weapons drop them now, or if we find them we will force you to eat them."_

            "I give this speech every year and every year some smart-_vith with more muscles than brains will try to keep weapons anyway.  Drop them __now.  No one? Very well… You all know what will happen next – you will be tested for individual aptitude in the weapon of your choice.  We do not care how you fare; you will still have to go through rudimentary weapons training in all weapons until you are allowed to specialize later, as I am sure you are aware of.  It is just a matter of individual consideration, and will not be taken into account for grading."_

            "You are not to hold back or try _any funny tricks with concealed weapons.  We will __not be amused, even though we concede that 'funny tricks' are a staple of ordinary Dark Elven fighting.  No magic, no potions or suchlike aids, we just need to see how long you can last against a Master.  A priestess is standing by to heal you after the fight, so do not worry, we will not make any lasting, serious damage so as to spare her time." _

            "If you manage to beat the Master, then that would be unusual but not extraordinary.  Do _not expect special treatment through your ten-year stay, or special consideration for the future post of Master.  You are evaluated in part for that on your ninth and last year in Melee-Magthere based on your performance in Melee-Magthere through that time, as well as your later performance as a member of a patrol."_

            "After the test you will be briefed again as a group when all of you have finished.  Any questions? No? Good."

            We were shown into a blank, square waiting room with benches lining opposite walls.  There was a desk in the centre and a single chair – a mage sat in it.  The mage and the Master exchanged polite nods, and then the Master gestured to one of us at random, and led him out of the other door in the room.

             "All of you should know what I am here for," the mage began crisply.  His voluminous robes were draped over his arms in such a way as to allow us to see clearly the infrared signature of metal heated by body-warmth – bracers of a Master.  "I am a Master of Sorcere, and I am here to keep an eye on you.  I will not tolerate any tricks you may care to pull on your fellow students so as to 'improve' your general 'ranking'.  There is no ranking involved.  I have no idea why you students take this fight seriously…" the mage thought a little, "Probably some latent warrior code of pride," he muttered to himself.  

            "Now, I'm going to quietly meditate.  If you try something on your classmates, I will _know, and you will instantly be teleported to the drider pits.  I hear they have not fed for a week, so you will be extremely welcome to try the same trick on __them."_

            We were very quiet after that.

**

            I got bored quickly, and had to fight against dozing off, so I merely kept moving so as to keep my arms and legs from freezing up.  Nothing too obvious – just twitchy rotations of the ankle and such.  Cramps would not be helpful once it was my turn.

            The Master kept coming back in uneven intervals to pick the next student, increasing the air of nervousness in the room as each left, until the place was nearly empty and it was my turn.  I followed him a little uneasily out, into a smaller chamber where there were a few racks of well-kept weapons – halberds, scimitars, daggers, spears, pikes, swords of varying lengths, double-bladed swords, axes, maces, flails, warhammers, crossbows and such – all gleaming in the dull light, unadorned, obviously unmagical.  I had not come in any armour, having been forewarned that armour would just be confiscated – there were a few suits of different armour on the opposite wall, heavy on their stands.  Shields of diverse sizes were neatly stacked on the ground.

            "Pick your favourite weapons or a weapon and a shield and take your time, and pick a suit of armour.  If the rest of your clothing is not magical, you can keep them on."

            "They are not," I said, showing him my gloves, palm open.  Normal, leather gloves, slightly shiny and worn from use – normal, hard leather boots.  No cloak.  Tunic and pants.  He nodded.  

            I picked armour first, ignoring the order of his words – it made more sense, as armour could be put on, while since there were no scabbards in sight the weapons would have just been deadweight.  I removed my belt, pulled the padded shirt over my head, nose wrinkling at the rank scent of sweat, then the dryly-clinking chain-mail, then replaced my belt over the chain-mail.  Shoulder-plates were unnecessary, so I left them, and picked fitting guards with free-moving joints for my upper arms and lower arms.  Light metal scales had been affixed to them, allowing some protection against slashes.  Leggings made of hardened leather, all unadorned.  

            No helmet – it hemmed in peripheral vision, even though it allowed for heavy hits on the head.  I had long decided that if I ever let anyone close enough to hit me critically on the head, I probably deserved to die.  The young have quite a store of pride.

            I could feel the Master watching me, and the hair on my neck was standing, but I ignored the uncomfortable sensation.  

            Walking around for a little bit to allow the armour to settle, I then went over to the rack and picked two swords, weighing them in my hands, then put a dagger into the sheath of my boots, steeled myself, trying not to let the excitement show.  "I am ready."

            The Master nodded, face neutral, and opened the next door.  He stepped into the darkness within for a moment and said something to a few infrared figures, and they left, save one.  He nodded to me, indicating that I should enter.

            "Tell the Master inside exactly what you took from here," he said, "If he can tell you are concealing something, he might use tricks of his own on you."

            The sound of the door closing behind me, firmly, with a quiet squeal from the hinges that spoke of a need for oil – that I remember clearly.

**

            "Your name?" the Master inside asked.  He held a lance in an at-ready position somewhat off-centre in a large room – the air smelt cleaner and without the confined mustiness of the previous rooms.  His voice was sharp and penetrating, though the fluidity of the words suggested that he had repeated himself several times.  I wondered if he was tired, or if indeed he had been fighting at all.  It was hard to tell – the infrared signature suggested that he was fresh, but I knew of Priestess spells which could for a short time stave off exhaustion.

            "Zaknafein Do'Urden."

            "Have you had previous experience in weapons?"

            "Some."

            "I see.  Are the two swords your weapons of preference?"

            "They are."

            "You just took swords and armour from the room?"

            "No, I also took a dagger."

            "Do you have other proficiencies?"

            "Yes."

            The first attack was without warning – no change in the intensity of the heat around his fingers that would have suggested a tightening of the grip, or a shift in the stance.  One of his hands flicked up, and I instinctively leaped to the side and kept running.  Distant sounds of something metal hitting the walls could be heard – knives or darts.  Knives – the rattle of their landing on the ground was too loud for darts.  Not straight for him, but in an erratic line, watching his heat and the fingers – dodge again, and more sounds against the wall, and I was on him, no battle cry or fancy leap, swords low, one up in a slash.  

            The lance clashed with that in a tight parry, and then the Master neatly sidestepped and followed-through in one graceful move which sent the bladed end of the lance rushing towards my temple.  Parried, and the other end of the lace came for my hip.  I tried to slip my sword past his defence as I dodged, but he knocked it away with a whirl of steel, but I was waiting for this, concentrating on a hand, and as he did so my other sword snaked through and drew a harsh line on his bracer – a metal one, unfortunately, though not a Master's bracer – that was probably kept somewhere safe.  I had been aiming for his fist, but he had seen that coming.  

            We danced back from each other into a safe distance, as if on cue.  The shriek of metal-on-metal lingered in the air. 

            A beat, then he charged, lance still in both hands, in a careful downward swing that was followed with a tight upward one as I dodged.  Parried that, then had a close one as he quickly reversed the lance and set the other end on me, his hands shifting, as I leaped back he thrust, aiming for the stomach.  I had to sweep this away with some strength, nearly lost balance, and then had to try and keep things together under a barrage of quick stabs, one of which managed to cut my face above my ear.  Managed not to panic, recovered, and tried a few futile counters.   

            Looking back now, I rather believe that the 'first fight' of Melee-Magthere was probably just a session for Masters to drive their dominance into students, although a report of each student's performance _was_ submitted to Arach-Tinilith, and a copy to the House of the student.

            I ignored the sharp taste of rising despair that I felt in the presence of a seemingly better fighter.  He was more experienced, I was young.  Youth made no real difference. So what _did I have as an advantage?  Two swords were more manoeuvrable than a lance.  Faster, though a bit harder on reach and defence, and he probably knew this, which was why he was attacking so furiously.  Use his momentum?_

            I purposely made a high slash that he could block and turn, then ducked the other sword over, and as he whirled again into the tight fan of metal I let it _follow the arc up quickly instead of freezing and allowing it to clash against the lance as I had been doing so earlier, which was a customary response to a parry – clash and recover, clash and recover, __not follow…  _

            A hiss and an intake of breath, and we were again some distance from each other, watching warily.  Infrared betrayed that his shoulder was bleeding from a cut.  I couldn't tell how deep.  No self-congratulation allowed, or I would drop my guard.  

            He tried to use the reach of the lance now, but I knew I would lose for surety if I just defended instead of trying to get up close, so I dodged the slices, felt the blade deflect past the side of my chain shirt, and I was _close, so close I could see the bright red centres of his eyes in the infrared, and as I stabbed for one the lance reversed, knocking it aside, my right arm awkwardly pushed to the limit from my shoulder, compensated, allowed me to move my weight to my left leg and slam my right heel into his stomach.  A near thing, but I recovered my balance in time to go at him while he was down._

            He went down, lance arcing for my legs in a quick blur, anticipated, blocked, and he rolled as a sword dived, striking a spark from the stone ground, growled as my boot came down hard on a hand, but didn't let go, instead rolling again and swinging to block a downward slash.  I considered discarding a sword to halt his lance with the free hand, and rejected the idea as I dodged a kick.  Hard arcs from the lance, numbing to block – force was magnified at the blade-ends – compensated for trying to block near his grips, where he would suffer… 

            A stab, easily blocked, ah, a _mistake! Wide opening, he can't possibly recover in time…_

            A sharp click – to my surprise the lance _snapped into two, and from the clean ends two blades flicked out, one blurred forward even as I tried to scramble back…._

            Dull impact then a sharp pain – just under the left lung.  Definitely bleeding freely – the lance must have been adamantite or better, to have cut through the chain shirt.  The Master got up quickly, one hand touching his neck where I'd managed to nick him, and then he probably ascertained – correctly – that it was just a shallow cut.  Glanced at me, realized I wasn't yielding, and attacked.  Style had changed – now with two blade-things, like tiny versions of double-blade swords. 

            A wide swipe, which I ducked with protest from my wound, and I managed to parry the other, before we were facing each other again.  That had been a test, I knew, to see how badly I was injured, so I pretended to stumble a little, moving my right hand slightly towards the wound as if in a natural move to try and clutch it that was restrained by my weapon.  While doing that, I managed to move the sword into a better, higher position without causing suspicion.

            I realized quite early that Masters and students alike normally make the same mistake.  Seeing their opponent nearly down for the count, euphoria and relief normally cause their guard to be let down for a moment – unwanted thoughts stray across their minds, contemplation about what to do after the fight, how to dispose of the body, that sort of thing… 

            This Master did not make as glaring a mistake as others I knew later, but his next charge was faster and quick, trying to make an end to the fight.  As I stumbled he darted forward, blades raised like striking talons, I dodged one while bringing down the flat of my higher sword sharply on his knuckles.  With a curse, he dropped it involuntarily, then swore again as he found that the other sword had scissored over my arm on his now-unarmed side, edge now parallel to the top of his lip.  Any move and in my pain-hazed condition I'd have gladly opened another mouth for him.  

            A quick follow through allowed due to his hesitation allowed me to somewhat belatedly point the second sword at a more lethal area – his neck. 

            "Do you give?" I panted.  No exhilaration allowed – he might have another trick, and this time I had to be ready – he was cornered, and he might do something horrible.  

            A pause, then a rueful, "I give.  Lower your weapons and follow me."

            If he'd asked me to walk in front of him, I definitely would have thought him yet wanting a fight.  Behind him was fine.  I walked as well as I could without staggering to the next door, where the priestess inside took two searching looks at us then started the healing spells on me first, as I clearly had the more serious wounds.

            "Well done," the gaunt Master inside that room told me, as he bent over parchment on a small desk.  The flat tone to his voice betrayed neither approval nor disapproval.  He wrote something on the parchment, and mage-light drew spidery shadows on the wall that seemed to dance along with the scratchy, skittering sound of the quill-tip over the paper.  I sneaked a look at the Master I had defeated.  There was mild resignation on his face, but to my relief, no resentment.  Later I realized I was lucky that day – Master Bae'lan, whose name I learnt later and whom I had fought, was not one who held grudges.  Some of the other Masters got very nasty whenever they were defeated.

            The strange itchy feeling of a wound closing ceased, and I was left with the sticky sensation of blood on my padded shirt and tunic.  The priestesses wordlessly started on Bae'lan.  

            Two Masters entered the room, spoke quietly with Bae'lan, then one said something that made all of them chuckle except the priestess, before entering the fighting room.   Why did more than one have to enter the room, I wondered? 

            Several answers, but the most probably being that it was uncertain to the last who was going to fight who.  Or perhaps it was just some strange custom of Melee-Magthere, which I later realized was full of odd traditions.  I looked around this room – it held decorations on the walls, unlike the previous rooms.  Mainly framed documents, and one simple tapestry of a crossbow with evil-looking bolts.  The colour was interesting, bright blues on the bolts contrasting with the dull sheen of the… 

            I realized belatedly that Bae'lan and the Master at the table were staring at me.  I gave them a blank look.  

            "Your armour and weapons," Bae'lan explained, pointing at the racks in this room. The sets of armour here were mostly bloodied, especially the padded shirts, and after I mumbled an apology I added my set to them, and left the swords and dagger on the rack.  There was nothing available to clean them with, anyway.  

            As I left the place to the next waiting room, I could feel them looking at my back, and it made the space between my shoulder-blades itch.  

            The Master who was supposed to brief us in this room looked up when I entered, as did all the waiting students who had finished.  "Did you win?" He asked.  There was only slight curiosity in his voice, as if he had asked for my name.

            "Yes," I said, careful to keep all pride out of my tone and avoid his eyes, understanding, in a moment, some of the social politics involved in Melee-Magthere.  I sat down as quietly as I could.  There was a snort from his direction, but no other reply – the students shifted a little, and as I surreptitiously looked amongst them, I could discern none who returned my gaze with the feeling of a fellow victor.  

            The arrogance in me rose then, and I allowed myself a fleeting, self-congratulatory smile, but when I glanced at the Master guiltily, I was slightly – and oddly - disappointed to see that he hadn't noticed.   Leaning back on the wall, I decided that Melee-Magthere _could prove interesting. _


	9. Intersection

Intersection

            "Oh hello," S'kaerik made an effort to look surprised, even though the noisy metal clashing of Jarlaxle's bangles had been very audible while he had been climbing the staircase up to her room.  "I had begun to think you'd forgotten about me."

            "You do not seem too displeased, _abbil," Jarlaxle said pleasantly._

            "Mrrr," S'kaerik's tail twitched, a sign of uncertainty, "Well, I have been too busy of late to entertain visitors appropriately.  Please, have a seat."

            Jarlaxle bowed briefly as thanks, and sat down near the nest.  S'kaerik reflected that either she now paid more attention to his mannerisms, or he was becoming more obvious, because now she could see him surreptitiously glancing at the translated documents from her perch on a chair.  "How have the dwarves settled in?"

            "Rather well – they've all had rooms in the place the dwarves marked for their own," S'kaerik said.  She did not add in that the humans and the Weyr-cats had let them have their own 'place' with great relief, because dwarves tended to stay up late – by the hands of the timeclock the Company used anyway - and stay noisy.  One could not believe how much they could go on, talking amount stone and minerals and family…

            "They certainly like your company," Jarlaxle smiled briefly.  S'kaerik wondered where this conversation was going.  She got slightly paranoid every time she was exposed to him.

            "Because I am one of the few Cats to study their history in detail," S'kaerik said, "Instead of specialising in Human history.  Dwarven and Elven histories are more interesting.  In my opinion, of course," she added conscientiously.

            "You speak of history almost as though it were just a good book."

            S'kaerik glanced quickly at his face to see if she'd given offence, but Jarlaxle seemed only mildly curious as to what her response would be.  Try a joke? "Ah well, not _all of us have lived through histories," she winked._

            Jarlaxle grinned.  "If I start listening to you about my age, I may soon start to act it."

            "Really."

            "It would be your fault if I end up a senile, withered heap trembling on a bed somewhere in a dark corner."

            S'kaerik sniffed.  "Somehow I cannot imagine you in such… reduced circumstances, unless there was _some profit involved."_

            Jarlaxle did his best to look injured.

            "A _lot of profit involved, then," S'kaerik conceded mockingly.  It was probably time to change the subject, before Jarlaxle decided to come up with a crushing backhand.  "You didn't come to see the dwarves arrive?"_

            "No.  Contrary to possible popular opinion, I do have better things to do than watch an extended dwarven reunion, sprinkled with repetitive humour about dwarven heights from dwarves." 

            "Touché," S'kaerik stretched a little, yawning.  It was rather early in the morning, and she was due at a site in Manyfolk soon.  "Don't you like dwarves?"

            "I like your company better, Lady Cat," Jarlaxle said archly, fielding the question quickly.  An answer to such a question would be undiplomatic, given the number of dwarves that might eventually hear of it, in the Company.  One thing dwarves were more or less still united on was in their dislike of Elves.  And since Dwarves _were more or less half of the Company…_

            "It's too early in the morning for me to think of a suitably charming rejoinder," S'kaerik retorted in good nature. 

            "Your smile would be enough of a 'rejoinder', Lady Cat."

            "At least dwarves don't try funny words on me," S'kaerik muttered.  Unfortunately, Jarlaxle's sharp ears picked this up. 

            "Because there are not enough words in the dwarven tongue to describe beauty," Jarlaxle said gallantly.

            "They do have a lot of words to describe beauty, actually," S'kaerik said, mind still on auto-correct, which it normally stuck on early in the morning until she hit lunch.

            "_Inanimate beauty, especially that of rock," Jarlaxle said dryly._

            "It's still beauty," S'kaerik said, deciding to argue language with him.  That way, it was quite likely she would not lose track of the conversation.

            "I am _sure all words for beauty would still apply to you," Jarlaxle grinned mischievously.  _

            "I am _sure," S'kaerik imitated his tone, "That you say that to all the ladies." Mentally she ticked that phrase off her list of Things she'd always wanted to Say But Couldn't Find the Context._

            "What ladies?" Jarlaxle asked innocently.

            "Hmmph.  Making a list of your known conquests would take a decade.  If one typed quickly."

            "Conquests?"

            "As I said before, Jarlaxle, you really _shouldn't try to look innocent."_

            "Was I being innocent?"

            "You're doing it right now."

            "I am?"

            S'kaerik realized that Jarlaxle was in enough of a certain mood this morning such that he could continue on this thread forever if he wanted to.  "If I am not being intrusive – why are most of your conquests non-drow?"

            Jarlaxle raised an eyebrow.

            "Sorry," S'kaerik apologised quickly.  "I really should drink more coffee in the morning.  It does wonders for my sense of tact."

            Jarlaxle tapped his chin absently with a finger.  "Hmm… if I answer that question, would you answer some of my less tactful ones?"

            "What less tactful ones?" Warning bells went off in her head.

            Jarlaxle's grin looked particularly wicked. 

            "You ask your question first." S'kaerik said quickly.

            "Have all of your… 'conquests' been Weyr-cat?" 

            S'kaerik tried to keep the relief from showing on her face.  That was an easy one, considering she _didn't have many 'conquests'.  "I think so, yes."_

            "You think so?"

            "Well," she blushed a little, "There was an elf once, but I think we were probably just fooling around.  It was nothing serious, anyway."

            Jarlaxle seemed satisfied about something.  "And what happened to this elf?"

            "You didn't answer my question."

            "Ah… well, I would have thought the answer quite obvious," Jarlaxle said irritatingly.  "Dark elven females have a tendency to be quite dominating and predictable.  After a while, it ceases to be fun."

            The blush increased in intensity for a while as S'kaerik guiltily wondered what he meant by 'dominating', then she quickly shooed the thoughts into a corner.  Coffee.  She needed _coffee._

            "Your turn," Jarlaxle said mildly.

            "Oh.  Well, he returned to Evermeet after he finished his stay in the University of Baldur's Gate."  S'kaerik often wondered what would have happened if she had asked that elf to stay, but it would have been rude.  Not to mention she'd only kissed him once.  It wasn't really worth all the teasing she got from her friends after that incident somehow became public knowledge…

            "Are they still that way? Dark elven females, that is."  She still hadn't seen any, yet.  All the dark elves she had encountered so far were Bregan D'aerthe.

            "No, not really," Jarlaxle said thoughtfully.  "Most of them have lost religion, and have gone into technology, so it has been leached out of their system.  However," he added dryly, "Now more of them are quite a bit more interested in machines than in relationships.  There are more things to do, apparently, compared to religion.  Dark Elven religion used to be such that the worshipper tended to have a lot of free time, technically for torture or evil deeds and such."

            "Oh, okay," S'kaerik decided she really wanted to meet one, now.  

            "Will you go to Sshamath? When they open a road to it from here."

            S'kaerik blinked.  Word that the station in Menzoberranzan would eventually extend to Sshamath had only been out in the Company recently.  "Well, first it has to pass a few duergar cities, so it may take quite a while to get to Sshamath.  But yes, if they open a road to Sshamath in my lifetime, I will go."

            "It will be interesting," Jarlaxle smiled.  Especially interesting since he had recently discovered that Sshamath had been withholding technology of the sort that he had been looking for since he had offered the book to S'kaerik for translation.  

            "Well, when Menzoberranzan is manned enough and we can travel…"

            "It may be earlier than you believe," Jarlaxle said, "Sshamath has been working with the dwarven cities, and they are putting down rails by themselves."

            Now where did he get that from? That had not been common knowledge… as cities impatiently waiting expansion might try that themselves.  Sshamath and the duergar cities were doing it under close Company supervision.  Some of her surprise must have registered in her face, because Jarlaxle waved a hand dismissively.

            "I did mention that Sshamath had a branch of Bregan D'aerthe?"

            "Right.  Oh yes.  You did." S'kaerik mentally shook her head in astonishment.  Sometimes he rather scared her.  "Would you also happen to know how far work has been done?"

            "I would expect complete rails in a few months," Jarlaxle said mildly, grinning at her surprise.  "Contrary to what you may think, magic can actually greatly aid technology."

            "Ummm.  They're using magic on the rails? The Company…"

            "No, they are using magic in transporting materials.  The actual process of construction is manual," Jarlaxle said swiftly, before S'kaerik panicked.  "They are aware of Company restrictions.  Although it would be more precise if magic had been allowed."

            "The speed is still quite… well, incredible." S'kaerik had thought that construction to Sshamath would have taken years.

            "Perhaps you underestimate the profit that Sshamath would attain in terms of foreign exchange if it was linked to the Surface, and to other Old Cities," Jarlaxle smiled.  He had done some calculations – only approximate ones, of course – and had immediately instructed the Sshamath Bregan D'aerthe division to try to get a larger handhold on the trading business.  

            "Ah, yes, I see," S'kaerik said, who didn't at all, because one of her faults was always underestimating the value money had to people as compared to old relics.  "But why didn't they do this earlier?"

            "Because 'electric lights' have just started mass manufacture in the Surface," Jarlaxle said mildly.

            Okay, she didn't even know about _that.  "Really? That's… how did you… eh, sorry I asked," she added, when Jarlaxle began to smirk.  He liked to show off.  Electric lights had been, when she left, rather a risky business, such that the Company, though it used some, mainly preferred normal lamps.  _

            "They have discovered some better material of which it would be less unstable," Jarlaxle said.  He knew precisely what material, but decided that a surfeit of information would just shock S'kaerik into silence.  

            "That's… very good," S'kaerik concluded lamely, then mentally scolded herself for the juvenile quality of her words.  "But why would they want electric lights? This is the Underdark…"

            "You cannot read scrolls by infrared, and parchment is very flammable next to candles, of which the heat by itself may be too much.  The brightness of an electric bulb can also be adjusted, while that of a candle cannot."

            "Oh, I see," S'kaerik said, blinking.  "But _just the electric bulb, and they are willing to shoulder the costs and labour of construction? And what do the dwarves get out of this? Normally they're willing to wait…"_

            "The illumination of the bulb is such that you can see items better.  Such as caves," Jarlaxle said dryly, who did not really understand dwarves himself, and did not want to.  That had been the best explanation he could come up with on short notice.  "And electric light, inside its bulb, would have less of a chance of setting off an explosion if there were… coal in an area."  That had been the second best explanation that he had.  

            "Ah." S'kaerik felt rather stupid now, and comforted herself by thinking of coffee.  She still didn't really understand why a single invention could prove so important, but perhaps it was just her.  Certainly when the electric light came out into general, if careful, use for the first time it had generated a sensation.  With eyes sharp enough to read even the most garbled manuscript by candlelight, S'kaerik had just continued using candlelight.  At least she knew where she stood by it, and candles did not have the possibility of spontaneous combustion.

            At that time it was still under experimentation, and expensive, because the most stable materials were somewhat expensive to separate from their ores, or something.  She had listened to a dwarven conversation on this and lost track, especially once they slipped into dwarfish.  

            Still, it had taken _years to get to Menzoberranzan…perhaps it was the magic? It was one reason why work had proceeded at a snail's pace… materials from the surface took forever to come down._

            Since her brain was still somewhat stunned, she asked the next thing that came to mind without thinking much.  "They have electricity?"

            Jarlaxle just smiled.

            Now she was _very curious.  She knew that dark elven technology was quite advanced, but no one – outside from a dark elf – actually knew by how much.  Before she could ask, though, the conversation somehow steered into that of dwarves in Manyfolk, and after a bit of skilful managing on Jarlaxle's part, she forgot to ask him about drow machinery, or why he kept asking about Sshamath._

**

            The dwarves were disagreeing on, as far as S'kaerik could tell, whether or not the axe they found was a ceremonial one – therefore, it had hung on the wall of the pub on which ruins they stood on now – or was a 'normal' one, and had just fallen there.  They had turned to dwarfish, a language that she understood only shakily, and then, only if spoken slowly.

            To occupy herself, she picked her way carefully around the broken stone, wondering if there was anything actually of value here, or if the dwarves were just hoping to find some extremely ancient alcohol.  

            Something shiny under the rock – S'kaerik mentally thanked whatever deity had made Weyr-Cats evolve with sharp eyes – and carefully pulled away the rock.  Hooks on a decorative carving… as if made to hold up something, probably something heavy.  Unearthing it a little more and smoothing away the dust, she realized that there were runes carved carefully above the hooks, probably visible over whatever the hooks had held.

            She turned to call the dwarves, and realized with some astonishment that some were already clustered around her.  Either she was really losing it, or had been too absorbed in trying to read the runes, which were gibberish to her.  Dwarfish was fine, but written dwarfish was weird, even after so many centuries, and even weirder once they integrated duergar into red dwarfish and called it Common Dwarf, or something.  The runes were almost definitely ancient duergar, though, which she couldn't read.

            The dwarves spoke loudly to each other until by general consensus the axe was brought forward.  S'kaerik carefully got out of the way while it was ceremonially lowered onto the hooks.  It didn't fit.  This sparked off another boisterous argument as the dwarves tried fitting the axe another way.  S'kaerik was suddenly reminded of those little kid games where the kids tried to fit shapes into shaped holes, and had to stifle a near unbearable urge to laugh.

            "The runes?" she asked politely when there was a lull in the conversation.

            They looked at her, bright eyes under bushy, grey or red eyebrows that were overshadowed by steel helmets, and then began to argue again.  Finally one said, "'Tis a name.  We ain't sure if 'tis the name of the _axe, or the __maker."_

            "Or the owner." Another dwarf said.  S'kaerik had given up trying to remember their names.  As far as she could tell, a lot of them were called Bjorn.  It was like humans and the name 'John'.  If you lisped a bit, 'John' actually sounded like 'Bjorn', come to think about it…

            "Could be the same thing," Maybe-Bjorn said defensively.

            "Was it an axe?" S'kaerik asked curiously.

            "What other weapon would'a been hung in a dwarven pub?"

            He had a point there. 

            A shout from somewhere behind the rubble that used to be, as far as she could tell, the counter.  Her rather pathetic dwarfish informed her that the word 'lager' was in it somewhere.

            S'kaerik winced as she went to take a look, but let out a sigh of relief when she realized that they had found a cellar where alcohol used to be stored, not the alcohol itself.  

            Behind her, ascertaining that lager was not actually in existence, the dwarves continued arguing.  The argument heightened when the dwarves 'found' a way to fit the axe onto the hooks.

            It all looked rather questionable to _her, especially the rather lopsided way the weapon fit onto the whole thing.  But since half of her pay from the Company came from dwarves…_

            She blinked.  The dwarves were looking at her.  "Yes?"

            "What d'ye think?" Could-be-Bjorn asked her.

            "Er… er, I think we should clear all the rubble carefully, and then…"

            "See, maybe there _are other axes," the dwarf said triumphantly at the others.  _

            "I meant…" S'kaerik said quickly, but the argument had resumed.  At least the dwarves were now rather efficiently clearing the blocks of stone into neat stacks, examining them carefully beforehand for any more hooks. 

            Uh oh – another axe.  S'kaerik braced herself for a new storm of unintelligible words.  Nothing came. She blinked.

            The dwarves were looking at her with new respect.  "Ye can _see 'em through the stone?"_

            "Er…"

            "Ye cats must be amazing!" Probably-Bjorn said.  The other dwarves nodded vigorously in agreement.

            "Er…?"

            In the next few hours, S'kaerik wondered ruefully whether or not being ignored or being followed around closely in the hope that she would 'detect' more axes 'through the stone' was worse. 

            _Dwarves._

--

Notes and References

_Abbil: friend_


	10. Part 5: Malice

Part 5

Malice

Translator's Note: The game _Seo'ur, as described by Jarlaxle of Bregan D'aerthe, mostly closely resembles the human game 'contract Bridge' – to draw an analogy - though somewhat more complex, involving a requirement for a good blend of guesswork, luck and quick deduction._

            If there were one word to describe, for the most part, my state during my stay in Melee-Magthere, it would have been 'boredom'.  

            Once the novelty of a new routine wore off – and it did after a week or so – one could more or less tell how each day would run – with unceasing monotony.  The only spot of amusement we had was at the start of each Narbondel cycle in the lectures about our Duty to Lloth.  That was due to the lecturer then – a singular character called Master Tal'nag. 

            Tal'nag was considered a good lecturer by the Academy because no student ever seemed to be sleeping, or otherwise distracted, during his lectures.  It took the Academy decades to realize that was not because they were really listening to him – after which his life was short and full of incident.

            The reason why all students seemed to listen so breathlessly to his spittle-filled admonishments and declarations about the evil of Lloth's enemies was because of his face.  Tal'nag unconsciously twitched whenever he was speaking to a group.  His right eye would suddenly squint in a move like a poorly-executed, exaggerated wink, at uneven intervals.  It was hypnotic.  No one in the room took their eyes off his face for the entirety of his three-hour lectures.  Combine that with his dramatic, free-wheeling hands as they attempted to emphasize, somewhat comically, whatever he was going on about, and his slight stammer, and you have entertainment.

            Despite Tal'nag – or perhaps, thanks to him – not one word of his lectures still reside in my mind, so I cannot provide this journal with an example.  The memory of it, however, is one of those priceless impressions that will last as long as I live.  The mad 'teacher' and the sinking, tensing feeling of rising laughter that had to be repeatedly stifled until one managed to reach one's bed and pretend to cough into the pillow…

            After the lectures would be exercises, after which we would be allowed to eat the first meal of the day – giving thanks to Lloth, of course.  Then would come long hours of training.  In the first year students were seen as generally pathetic and able to hurt themselves with mere cutlery, so we practiced with blunted weapons or poles, depending on the Master's mood.  The Master in charge of my class all the way up to the last day of our stay in Melee-Magthere was Bae'lan, and he proved to be hard and strict, supervising our routines with a sharp, piercing eye. 

            The routines were boring.  We did not fight each other, but just practiced hitting our poles against our partner's poles, learning basic parry and block, thrust and slash.  Still, it did strengthen muscles and improve the amount of force we could put into a move…

            I made no good friends – it was easier that way.  However, I did learn how to play cards – one of the students, Sol'ranr, had somehow managed to sneak a pack in, and since he was in the bunk below mine in the dormitory, we always ended up playing _Seo'ur with the bunks to our right.  I got better at the game rather quickly, since Sol'ranr was a good teacher and a good partner.  I would think it was because of the cards that I did not die of boredom in Melee-Magthere, though playing was a tricky business – it was not allowed, so we had to keep a watch out for roaming Masters.  Bae'lan never did suspect why the four of us always seemed slightly more tired than the other students._

            I remember the first time I spoke to Sol'ranr.  He was slender and thin, rather unassuming, and I could feel his somewhat calculating gaze staring at my back as I climbed onto the top bunk that I had been given.  

            "Your name?" he asked finally, when I had inspected the bunk to my satisfaction.  No little bugs or stains – the bed was not as soft as what I had been used to in House Do'Urden, but it would do.

            "Zaknafein Do'Urden.  Yours?" 

            "Sol'ranr Ill'dana," his eyes flickered quickly to the door, and out of habit, I followed his glance before looking at him again, somewhat warily.  His entire attitude spoke of something illegal, and I did not want to get into trouble with the Academy.

            "Have a good night," I said, with a tone of dismissal, and pulled my legs up to the bunk.

            "Wait," Sol'ranr said quickly, glancing at the door again, and then lowering his voice slightly.  "You play cards?"

            "What?"

            "Cards.  _Seo'ur_, to be precise."

            My surprise at the question must have shown in my face, because he smiled fleetingly.  "Do you think I am going to spend ten years of my life without finding anything fun to do?"  

            "I do not… know how to play," I admitted, feeling a horrified fascination beginning to build.  Sol'ranr's expression had a certain manic quality to it that I now recognize as a common component of an obsessive.

            "You want to learn?" His speech was clipped, skipping over words that his mind seemed to deem unnecessary, whenever talking about cards.  It was a peculiarity of Sol'ranr that gave me the occasional headache whenever he tried to teach me something.  Having to pay attention both to the content of his words and link together the words themselves was trying.

            "I do not mind."

            "Yeah, I could see the boredom written all over your face," Sol'ranr smirked.  While he was explaining the business of cards to me – and not easily, since I stuck on several points, such as bidding – the bunk to our right ascertained through our whispered conversation that we were talking about cards, and introduced themselves, to So'ranr's pleasure, as card players.  Raein't and Inofein, I believe their names were.  

            _Seo'ur is a very interesting game, and its popularity, in my opinion, is somewhat unusual, as it requires quite a lot of teamwork.  Sol'ranr was a __very good player, and I wondered for a while why this was so – did not his House have anything for him to do?  I asked him this once._

            "My Matron likes _Seo'ur_," Sol'ranr had replied, with a grin as he took in my disbelief.  "No, I am not joking.  She plays it with me and my sisters whenever she gets bored.  Which is often."

            "And does she win?" 

            "Of course she does," Sol'ranr shrugged.  "She's good.  And even if she was not good enough to win, we would probably let her."

            "Ah… _why_ does she like _Seo'ur?"_

            "Ask her," Sol'ranr shrugged again.  "I never do understand Matrons.  Now, you bid for swords if you have a lot of swords, understand?"

**

            The coming of the Festival of the Founding during my first year in Melee-Magthere was eagerly anticipated.  After all, we would get a holiday – even if it meant having to return to our Houses – but anything that broke the monotony that our lives had become was extremely welcome.  Through the _Seo'ur games I learnt about what my companions were going to do – apparently their Matrons had given them the entire day off, so they were going to visit some of the drinking pits and… play _Seo'ur_.  How exciting.  _

            Matron Daermone in my case, however, was somewhat less free with the idea of her weapon master-to-be wandering around getting drunk (as she put it in her letter to me that arrived a cycle before the Festival), and wanted me back at the House, immediately.  My _Seo'ur companions sympathized, especially Sol'ranr, who would therefore lose his partner for a day, but I was secretly relieved.  Malice was apparently going to show up in the House, as she would also be let off from her studies, and it would be my first real glimpse of her.  I was curious.  And getting sick of _Seo'ur_._

            On the day itself, we were let off in the early morning, and we went quickly down the large stairway after listening to the Masters issue dire threats about what would happen if we did not return on time.  The Priestesses had been let off the day before – quite unfairly – but the Mages came out at the same time.  I bid farewell to Sol'ranr and the others in Manyfolk and walked briskly to House Do'Urden, the Festival of the Founding celebrations gearing to a start around me.  Brightly coloured decorations were displayed near candlelight or magelight to bring out their hues, and doors were flung open to invite any visitor in.  

            I have always found the Festival to be an extremely amusing time of the year.  It is said that centuries ago Lloth, out of amusement, decided to appear as a male to a House, got treated like a male, and when in the process of being thrown out turned back to her true form and razed said House and all its inhabitants to the ground.  One could then, each Festival, now see all the noble-born females smiling – rather forcedly – at anything in the street, or any beggar or such that cared to enter their homes.

            Soelisk was waiting at the gates, trying to seem as though he hadn't been waiting for quite a while.

            "Is something wrong?" I asked curiously, when I was in range.

            "What? Oh.  Nothing's wrong." Soelisk said, seemingly distracted.

            "Something _is_ wrong," I concluded.  Soelisk shot me an irritated glance, so I added, "Or why would you be here?"

            Soelisk sighed.  "Matron Daermone makes it quite clear what would happen to any male who disturbs any of the decorations in the House, so it's much simpler just to stay out of the way.  Even the mages have hidden themselves somewhere.  I was just waiting for company."

            "Ah."

            "And Saole is always _extremely_ playful during the Festival, " Soelisk reminded me sourly as we walked slowly towards the Weapons Hall area of the House, far away from all the busy last-minute preparations to receive another House's Matron.  Apparently House Do'Urden and House Ul'trena, four ranks lower, took turns each year to visit each other.  It was a comfortable arrangement, since neither House had any intention to attack each other (the reasons were complex and hard to explain), and so, under the eyes of Menzoberranzan, they were considered 'friendly'.  Visiting each other year after year would prevent any Houses which did want to attack and could use the visit to gather layout information from coming over.  

            That was true.  Something about the Festival made Saole rather strange, and she would play rather elaborate and cruel tricks on Soelisk.  It was quite obvious to me after the first Festival I had in this House that Saole did know of Soelisk's feelings for her, and found them a source of entertainment.  Whether or not Soelisk knew of this, I could not tell, and did not really wish to enlighten him.

            "Why does Matron Daermone want me back here?" I asked curiously once we reached the Hall.

            Soelisk snorted.  "She doesn't want her prospective weapon master 'accidentally' getting killed in the streets.  Reports of your progress in Melee-Magthere have been common knowledge."

            "Really?" I blinked, as I sat on one of the couches opposite Soelisk, watching him bring out glasses and a bottle of mushroom wine.

            "You _did_ defeat a Master," Soelisk said mildly.  

            "He was careless," I said dismissively, though I was secretly pleased. 

            "Careless. Right," Soelisk handed me a glass, then proceeded to pour the wine for himself first.  

            Infrared suddenly picked up a flare of heat behind Soelisk, and I inhaled sharply in surprise, half-standing from the couch.  Soelisk glanced up quickly at me at the sound, and then yelped in shock when something snatched the bottle from him, upsetting the wine over his boots.  

            Saole laughed as she removed the hood of her masking-cloak to reveal the rest of her face.  It had a wicked, mischievous tone to it that made me check involuntarily for the nearest escape route.  Soelisk had warily backed away from her towards me, and we both started at her as she inspected the bottle, apparently with consuming interest.

            I looked at Soelisk through the corner of my eye – his expression was a curious one of resignation, indignation and a nearly unnoticeable tenderness.  I sighed inwardly.

            "Drinking already, weapon master?" she inquired. 

            "Only a glass, _malla Yathrin_," Soelisk said defensively, "In celebration."

            "Only a glass?" she repeated.  Her eyes were dancing with mischief.

            "Yes…"

            "Mmm.  Six years ago…"

            "I haven't drunk anything like that year after you…" Soelisk cut in, then hissed and flung his arms up to cover his face as a whip cracked through the air.  Blood began to seep from a shallow wound in his left arm. 

            "Do _not_ interrupt me," Saole said coldly, her mood turning from nearly kittenish playfulness into lethal venom in a second.  "Male."

            The exit looked _really_ inviting now.  

            She dropped the bottle, levitating it neatly onto the ground, and then approached us with dangerous grace.  I felt like running, but knew that it would _definitely_ be a bad idea.  I also felt like reminding her about the rules during the Festival, namely that regarding killing others, but decided _that_ idea was even worse.  Curling the leather whip back to her, she pulled the length into a tight loop from the handle, and then used the tip to push up Soelisk's chin, exposing his neck.  

            From the strained tension evident in the muscles of his face and neck when she did this, it was quite obvious that Soelisk was expecting the worst.  

            "Hmmm." Saole traced the few fine scars that extended from his face to the neck with her free hand, slowly, her outrage apparently gone.  At least she was ignoring me.  

            She tapped his arms sharply, and he lowered them back to his sides reluctantly.  From the confusion on his face I gathered that this situation, at least, was new.  "Should you be punished, Soelisk?" she said then, idly, walking behind him.

            "For what?" he asked, before he could stop himself, and I winced as she kicked the leg joint, causing him to buckle rather painfully into a kneeling position.  Soelisk bit his lip, no doubt cursing his mouth.  

            She completed the circle around him, now back in front.  Soelisk looked up once then averted his eyes.  I watched with increasing amazement as she gently pushed a stray lock of his hair behind his ear, then stroked the scars on his face, her attitude something like how one would treat a favoured pet, smiling as he involuntarily leaned a little into her touch, lips parting slightly.

            That, however, was rather minor in comparison to what she did next.  Applying pressure at certain points on his shoulder and legs with the whip, she indicated that he move into a cross-legged, sitting down position, and then she straddled his lap.  Another wicked smile at the shock on his face, then she reached behind him with the whip, pushed his head nearer with the handle and kissed him roughly on the mouth.  

            Now I acutely felt the awkwardness of my presence, and debated whether or not to leave and risk offending her (leaving without permission), or stay _and risk offending her (insolence from staying).  Priestesses, even those considered non-noble like Saole, were irritating that way… _

            The situation would have been very amusing if it was not so dangerous.  From the growing flush – betrayed by deepening spots of red in infravision - developing on Soelisk's cheeks, she had probably expanded the action by invading his mouth.  Not that he was resisting, though his hands, passively at his sides, clenched.  

            I decided to risk clearing my throat loudly.  The kiss continued for a beat longer, and then Saole broke it, inducing a stifled moan of protest from Soelisk, though she still stayed exactly where she was.  Without taking her eyes off the slightly comical expression of bewilderment that had taken up residence on Soelisk's face, she said, "Matron Daermone is expecting you in the chapel, now."

            A definite tone of dismissal, and I left gratefully and hurriedly.  I rather doubted Matron Daermone had demanded my immediate presence, or Saole would have told me once she had seen me, so I was rather at a loss as to exactly why she made me stay there that long.   Perhaps to embarrass Soelisk further?  And why would she be interested in him, if there were better looking commoner-soldiers at her disposal?

            Better not to think about it – though I vaguely wondered if she was going to do anything else to him while I was gone.  The House visit would still be in a few hours, and if she was this free to walk around, it meant the preparations had finished early.

            The chapel was empty except for the Matron, who sat on her throne reading the inevitable tome.  She seemed to have plenty of them, and they were a good way of making the one seeking her audience nervous until she chose to 'notice' their presence.  I stopped a respectful distance away and fell to one knee.  Obsequiousness tended to call her attention more quickly.

            "_Malla Ilharess?"_

            She looked up slowly from the tome.  "Ah, Zaknafein.  How did you find the Academy?"

            "It has been an experience, _malla Ilharess_," I said diplomatically.  Saying that it was boring would probably just invite punishment, unless she was in a really good mood.

            "I heard you defeated a Master?"

            "Yes, _malla Ilharess_."

            "You had better come out first rank in the Melee at the end of the year, Zaknafein.  Do not let that victory make you overconfident."

            "I understand, _malla_ _Ilharess.  I will not fail you."_

            "You would not fail _me_, or the House, Zaknafein?"

            "_Malla Ilharess?" What kind of question was that?_

            She snorted.  "Surely you notice my daughters' ambitions?"

            "Yes, _malla Ilharess_."

            "They will be more apparent once you graduate and finish with the patrols," Matron Daermone predicted.  "And they will soon turn their attention towards you, if they have not already." She paused for a while, as if looking at something that I could not see.  "Ah, I see Reprise, at least, already has."

            My expression must have been suitably blank, because she added irritably, "She has instructed her daughter to become more… friendly with our current weapon master.  You, I believe, are rather good… friends with Soelisk… are you not?"

            I blinked.  Friends? I guessed we were, at that – to the best definition of the word by dark elves.  Matron Daermone saw my uncertainty and nodded.  "There is no wrong in this – yet.  But I am sure you can see all the implications that an increased acquaintance of Saole with Soelisk intimates.  Malice would also make her move soon."

            "But why?" I blurted out, then hastily added, "Forgive my ignorance, _malla Ilharess."_

            "Because you would make a very good ally," Daermone said slowly, as if speaking to a very stupid child.  "I warn you, Zaknafein – do not take sides in this."

            "Yes, _malla Ilharess_," I said, and strangely enough, I found that I meant it.

**

            This resolve of mine was somewhat weakened later, when I saw Malice close up for the first time.  She was instructing commoner-priestesses in something when I arrived behind Matron Daermone, and her beauty was incredible in the magelight.  Malice was easily the most striking female I had ever seen – hers was an imperious, commanding beauty that encompassed not just her physical features, but her bearing and poise, her elegance and dignity.  Her thick mane of hair had a silky sheen to it that spoke of expensive soaps, and as she moved closer to greet Matron Daermone formally, I could smell the alluring hint of her perfume.  Other than that, however, she wore no cosmetics, perhaps knowing that this would lend a natural quality to her features that would enhance her beauty that no artificial aids could.  

            I had to look away quickly before she caught me staring at her, and in that moment, for a brief instant, I met Matron Daermone's eyes, and I saw that she knew what had happened, and had known it would happen, and there was a fleeting look of ageless grief and frustration, from the knowledge that her downfall was inevitable and inexorable, as it was the ancient, unspoken way of the city, and then she turned away, a mask of condescending politeness as she complemented her daughter graciously on her work.

            I dared not look at Malice again until everything was over and I was leaving for Melee-Magthere.  She was in profile then against a magelight, her hair a silver corona around her features and shoulders, her body outlined by the dim illumination as though she glowed with some inner fire that burned from her soul.  

I swallowed, and forced myself to keep walking. 

--

Notes and Translations:

_Malla Yathrin_: Most honoured Priestess (of Lloth)


	11. Intersection

Intersection

            "Finished?"

            "Finished," S'kaerik confirmed, her voice awed, and then her brow creased into a delicate frown, as if something had just occurred to her.  Jarlaxle carefully kept his expression mildly astonished, as if the piece of information she had just told him was new.

            "Is something wrong, Lady Cat?" he inquired.

            "No… yes, actually," she said dryly, "The Company would be very interested to know why the rail to Sshamath has been completed with such remarkable speed."

            "I have no idea, Lady Cat," Jarlaxle said sincerely.  That was technically true – Jarlaxle did not know exactly what had happened, but he did have a very accurate skeleton of the proceeds. 

            S'kaerik, however, had just had her afternoon nap, and was therefore somewhat sharper than normal, as like all her kindred after naps.  "Forgive my ignorance, but I find it difficult to understand how you can have a branch of your band in Sshamath and yet have not even an inkling of what must have been a massive task."

            Jarlaxle began to suspect that S'kaerik was seriously beginning to be affected by the Dark Elven way of speech, and wondered if this would prove somewhat more advantageous than her previous system of thought.  Certainly it would be more entertaining, but he would have to watch himself more closely.  S'kaerik _was intelligent, very much so, though it was easy to look at the fur and the nearly-permanent expression of cheerful cordiality on her face and forget that fact._

            Jarlaxle shrugged.  "Ask the dwarves? Perhaps they would know.  Their kin _are helping with a fair part of the construction, from all accounts."_

            "Accounts?" Ah, she picked that up rather quickly. 

            "Dwarves are quite free with their tongues when in large groups, Lady Cat," Jarlaxle smiled, and nodded mentally with satisfaction when S'kaerik unhesitatingly accepted the reason.  She still thought, for the most part, like a Weyr-Cat, as was her nature – somewhat too trusting and willing to accept logic on the surface.

            "Oh, I can tell," S'kaerik grinned wickedly.  "They talk far too much sometimes, especially about axes."

            "I am impressed by your patience," Jarlaxle offered.  The praise, as he knew, made S'kaerik blush a little in embarrassment.

            "Cats are known to be patient," S'kaerik said modestly, "And besides, I like them more than the humans."

            "May I ask why?" Now that was interesting.

            "Don't get me wrong, I have lots of human friends… it's just that when a group of mostly male humans are working together – and that's what most of the groups here are comprised of – they tend to enjoy telling, indiscriminately, the most tasteless jokes and stories imaginable."

            "Perhaps it is a source of entertainment to them?"

            "It could be.  And I don't even understand a lot of the jokes," S'kaerik admitted.  "And I don't like how a lot of the male humans here look at us female Weyr-Cats.  Our males certainly don't look at us that way all the time."

            "Which brings me to another point.  Why would you work with dwarves instead of your kind?"  Jarlaxle paused, as if considering his next words.  "None of you seem to work in groups."

            "My kind has faults too," S'kaerik's voice unconsciously dropped a little, as if confiding a secret.  "We're skittish when in too big a group.  Cats like to walk alone – companions are fine in our free time.  Though the mated pairs do work together."

            There was the wistfulness again, the trailing-off tone that Jarlaxle noticed she used whenever speaking about mated pairs.  He definitely had to get her to Sshamath to meet the mage, even though he knew he might have to devise a way to pry her out of Menzoberranzan.  If nothing, at least it would be amusing.

**

            Trains came more frequently as the restoration of Menzoberranzan began to slow down.  Enough had been cleared and built, by now, such that the dead city was able to attract scholars and tourists of a more cautious approach to life.  Enterprising shopkeepers arrived with each train, and soon there was a rudimentary market where the Bazaar once was held, and people who bought the rest-houses and such from the Company, to turn them into inns.  Selling the restored property and land in Old Cities which was unclaimed by existing descendants was a considerable source of the Company's revenue.

            S'kaerik had more and more free time – now that enough information had been gathered by the Company's employees in Menzoberranzan for a report of suitable depth, her presence was required less often at reclamation, which meant she could spend some more time working out the knots in grammar and abbreviation in the journal.

            The sections the author had devoted to House politics were beginning to evade her.  The sentences were so vague as to seem disjointed, and she was unable to construct them together from other sources, because there _were_ no other sources.  Jarlaxle had blinked owlishly at her when she'd finally asked him about it, and informed her dryly that he hadn't been born yet during that period of time.  

            She sighed and put the book down, deciding to go out and stretch her limbs for a while.  Staring at all the stupid markings would not make them any clearer.

            S'kaerik hesitated on the stairway when the smells of chainmail and sweat were apparent, and growing stronger.  She glanced once at Hint'raek, who was at the door, and he smiled briefly at her, then lowered one hand, palm down, towards the ground, stopping at waist height.  S'kaerik raised ten fingers in the air, thumbs together – _how many?_

            Hint'raek glanced once out of the door, then moved his fingers together in quick, graceful knots – _fifteen_.

            Fifteen dwarves headed towards the resting-house.  S'kaerik's private musings on whether or not they were looking for her were dashed when Hint'raek raised his eyebrows at her, grinned in sympathy, and then left the area with as much dignity as a Cat could muster without seeming rude.

            She tentatively came down the stairs and looked at the horde – it was definitely a horde – of dwarves.  

            One of them said, "Ah, Lady S'kaerik," with the invisible _Sorry to bother you attached, and the even more concealed mild insincerity beneath that later.  _

            "Yes?"

            "Ye uh, know about the Donigarten area?"

            "Um, yes?" Donigarten, now an unruly, large patch of ground choked with weeds, was where the Dark Elves used to plant their crops, and where they kept their rothe on the island on the lake.  What would dwarves want in Donigarten?

            "We were wond'ring about the lake…"

            Aha.  "Aren't there monsters in there?"

            The dwarves collectively gave her a Look, which said that there weren't many monsters that a large enough dwarf party armed with axes and a cleric couldn't handle, even if the monsters were still alive.

            "Sorry," she mumbled.  "The lake.  You're talking about the treasures rumoured to be inside the lake?"

            "Yeah." The dwarves looked relieved, as if she'd just said something that they had been working up to say, and now didn't need to.

            "Well, if you don't make too much of a disturbance to the natural formations I don't see why we can't retrieve some of the artefacts," S'kaerik said.

            The dwarves gave her another Look, this one which said that yes, they knew that, because they did own quite a bit of the Company.

            "Um… what would you like me to do?" she asked finally.

            "Our cleric felt somethin' about the lake.  We were wond'ring if ye could… ask yer Dark Elf friend 'bout whether or not there were traps down there or summat."  That came out in a rush. 

            "Oh.  Sure, of course." S'kaerik blinked, then smiled, then blinked again.  "You'd uh, let the rest of us look at the artefacts, right?"

            "Ye can watch us trawl 'em up, if ye like," the speaker said helpfully.  The dwarves nodded their agreement.  It was rather comical, watching the helmeted heads bob up and down, but S'kaerik wisely kept her sentiments to herself.  The axes at their belts looked very sharp.

**

            "The lake?" Jarlaxle repeated thoughtfully.

            S'kaerik waited patiently, knowing that chasing him any further was quite rude.  They were in his office now, where she had found Jarlaxle carefully wiping his glove-daggers.  Exactly why he was doing this, she didn't really want to know.

            "Yes, there _are_ wards in the lake."

            "The dwarves want to know what sort, and where, and if possible, how to counter them."

            "That is quite a lot that you ask, Lady Cat."

            S'kaerik grinned sheepishly.  "That's what I told them, and they said they're willing to pay you.  Within reason, of course."

            Jarlaxle nodded slowly as he sheathed one of the daggers back into his gloves.  

            "So, do you know?" S'kaerik prodded a little, after the ensuing silence.

            Jarlaxle clapped his hands sharply.  There was a pause, and then one of the mercenaries appeared at the door.  Jarlaxle said something quickly to him, and he bowed and exited.  S'kaerik managed to catch the words 'scroll' and 'library' in Dark Elven, but it was enough. 

            "The dwarves say, they will discuss the price with you once they see if your information is correct," S'kaerik said apologetically.  "Unfortunately, both types of dwarves still don't trust Dark Elves."

            Jarlaxle grinned impishly.  "There is nothing to worry about.  Not even Dark Elves trust other Dark Elves.  I am afraid, however, that your dwarves may have nothing that I presently require."

            "Not even money?" S'kaerik asked archly.

            "I was more in mind of requesting a favour out of you, Lady Cat," Jarlaxle said inscrutably.

            "Eh?" S'kaerik blinked in surprise, and then closed her mouth quickly when she realized she was gaping at him.  "What sort of favour?" she asked suspiciously.

            "Merely that you accompany the Company's first representatives to Sshamath," Jarlaxle said, then held up a hand when S'kaerik began to protest.  "I know you wanted to go there."

            "That's because I thought it'd take years to negotiate a way to Sshamath.  My work in Menzoberranzan is as yet incomplete…" 

            "But not urgent, yes?"

            "_Why do you want me to go so soon, anyway?"_

            "I would like you to meet someone," Jarlaxle smiled, "Of old acquaintance."

            "And the Company may not even let me go," S'kaerik said, and then her curiosity caught up with her.  "Meet who?"

            "Nalfein Do'Urden.  I believe you've read about him."

            S'kaerik felt that this day was a little too full of surprises for her to cope, and she had to spend a short moment recovering from this one.  

            Finally she said, "Isn't he dead?"

            "You'd be surprised at how that remark tends to annoy him."

            "But he _is_ dead."

            "Did you think he would allow himself to be killed that easily, unless he wanted something out of it?"

            "I think you've lost me there," S'kaerik said slowly.  In her opinion, when you died, you died, unless you came back as undead… oh, there was a point there.  "Is he undead then?"

            Jarlaxle's expression twisted into a fleeting one of disdain.  "An elf, willingly become undead? Very unusual, and definitely not in his case.  No, Nalfein is very much alive, though living under another name and age."

            "So what happened?"

            "There was an elaborate arrangement involving theft, a complex version of the resurrection spell, and several expensive magical devices."

            "And Bregan D'aerthe, I presume," S'kaerik smiled, though her mind was still whirling.  Nalfein Do'Urden alive! Then he would take over Jarlaxle as being the oldest being she knew of…

            "An essential catalyst," Jarlaxle inclined his head, "Though we had some help.  Nalfein used to be a good… friend – as far as these things go, with Dark Elves, in any case – with Zaknafein.  Someone had to let us into the House crypt."

            Something struck her then.  "Would he still remember about his time in the House before his mother became Matron? I'm having a bit of problems with a part of the book," she added, when Jarlaxle raised an eyebrow.

            "I do not see why not.  We have long memories."

            "Ah." S'kaerik hesitated.  "I think I'd like to state now that I still don't feel very good about this.  And why do you want me to meet him?"

            Jarlaxle grinned, and there was something about that grin that made S'kaerik feel a little nervous, as if she was an unwitting part of some elaborate prank that Jarlaxle was about to pull on something.  "I believe he could do with some refreshing company in the form of yourself, Lady Cat," he said outrageously.

            S'kaerik sighed.  When he got into that mood, there wasn't much she could do about it.

            Before she could come up with some suitably stinging retort, the mercenary returned with a scroll that was so yellowed with age S'kaerik was half-afraid it would fall apart at any moment.  On it was an elaborate, beautiful drawing of the Lake, along with many symbols and thickly-packed annotations of which she estimated she could only decipher a fraction, and not be sure of the words.

            "Your treasure map," Jarlaxle said, somewhat unnecessarily and dramatically.  "Would you require help with the translations?"

            "Well…"

            "I _could_ offer to help you, of course," Jarlaxle said pleasantly.  The fact that, just as easily, he could _not_, was left unsaid.

            "If I agree to go with you and meet Nalfein?" S'kaerik asked dryly.

            "If you agree to go to Sshamath and meet him, then I will lend you the map.  Translation will require payment from the dwarves, whom, of course, I will speak to later."

            S'kaerik shook her head wryly.  Money _and favour, all in one move.  Sometimes she wished she knew how Jarlaxle managed to pull every string into place and make the exact pattern he wanted out of it.  "Oh all right." _

**

            She inspected the neat array of materials that the dwarves had brought out of the lake so far.  Some bones, still encased in the shells of their armour, some weapons, some totally rotted tomes of what looked like ancient grimoires, pitiful remnants of clothes, even some goblets.  Most of the bones, by their size looked Dark Elven, though there were one or two humans.  The dwarves treated all of the remains with reverence and clinical efficiency – things that looked as though they 'belonged' to a certain corpse were stacked near it in neat piles.  

            The lake was being trawled carefully by some strange, complex-looking device that made occasionally alarming squealing noises.  Dwarves swarmed over it, the controls, and in the shallows of the lake, shouting conflicting instructions at each other.  

            The artefacts were all quite interesting, even though they smelled of grime and decay.  She wondered which ones Jarlaxle was going to pick – he had requested that the dwarves let him take something from the artefacts, as well as pay him, then, when they had protested loudly, suggested that they try and find someone else to do the translations accurately, then.

            There was a yell from the lake, and more splashing.  The many-fingered, surprisingly delicate arm of the huge device came out from the fetid water slowly, carefully bringing out a corpse and a mass of items encased in mud which it put down on the shore, swivelling around ponderously with the sound of metallic squeals.

            This corpse was smaller than the usual… 

            S'kaerik realized with a certain bemusement that the corpse was that of a dwarf, and that from the general excitement level, they had expected this to happen.  Somehow, she wasn't surprised at all…

**

            In his office, Jarlaxle permitted himself a smile as a mercenary reported the events in Donigarten.  It had only taken a few careful placements of an authentic old scroll written in dwarfish in a house the dwarves were restoring, as well as a few broken remnants of a dagger to nudge the dwarves in the correct direction, then a few more careful nudges to set S'kaerik in hers.  Manipulation was easy when one knew all the buttons to push.


	12. Part 6: Saole

Part 6

Saole

            The second Festival of my stay in Melee-Magthere was mainly spent, I am afraid to confess, looking out rather guiltily for Malice's face.  As like the first year, Soelisk was waiting for me at the gate, though he seemed somewhat different already – and in just a year at that.  There was something haunted in his expression now, as if something in his life had soured quickly and painfully, though nothing of it showed in his voice when he greeted me.  

            "Is something wrong?" I asked him, when we walked to the Weapons Hall.  The sense of déjà vu in the situation struck me immediately, and I had to keep my expression straight.

            "You plan on asking me each year?" His street-speech was slipping out, a definite sign of his agitation.  Definitely something wrong…

            "Unless I am much mistaken, it has something to do with Saole," I mused aloud, with a sidelong glance to see if I was correct.  Yes – his mouth twitched, and the haunted look seemed to deepen.  "What is it?" 

            I knew rather well what it was, though – Saole had probably 'convinced' him to try and persuade me to join Reprise's endeavour against Malice and Daermone.  Reprise had no doubt realized early that Malice would not settle for anything short than Matron of Do'Urden.

            Soelisk was silent, and I was content to let him be so, at least until we reached the Weapons Hall.  This time, he didn't bring out a wine bottle, but simply sat on one of the benches.  I took my seat opposite him, and then just quietly stared at him as he fidgeted.

            "You know Reprise and Malice are both… against Daermone and each other?" he asked quietly.

            "Yes…"

            "Which side do you support, Zaknafein?" Soelisk asked painfully then, after a pause, as if he had been told to work around to this question subtly, but decided finally and recently that he could not.

            "I do not know," I replied honestly.  "I do not have enough time to get involved."

            "You planning to live longer than after Patrols?" Soelisk grinned then, a flash of his former humour returning.

            "I have more than ten years to decide," I returned the grin.  "It is a long time."

            "No, it is not," Soelisk sighed then, haunted again, "And I'm afraid you have already chosen."

            I had to lower my head, shaking it as if to move my hair from my eyes, to conceal the fleeting twist to my mouth which I would be sure that Soelisk would find telling.  "I do not know what you are talking about."

            "I saw how you looked at Malice last year, Zaknafein," Soelisk said quietly, "And for all the worlds, I cannot fault you."

            "Did she…?" I let the sentence trail off.

            "Yeah, she knew you were looking at her, too," Soelisk ran an impatient hand through his hair, "She's a 'reader, remember?"

            I had totally forgotten about that fact, and flinched.  "What do you have to benefit from Reprise then, Soelisk?" I challenged bluntly, "Whether or not Reprise becomes Matron, or Malice becomes Matron, you will die."  Soelisk was not young, and he was not that good a fighter.  At best, he would only be regulated to a commoner soldier, and he would die, naturally, or in a House raid, or abandoned in the Braeryn.  At worst, he might be the sacrifice either side might make to the glory of Lloth in thanks for their ascension.  Most likely the latter – both Malice and Reprise probably believed him relatively useless, and possessing too much House information, with his networks, to just be a commoner soldier again.

            "I know," Soelisk said simply, and a little sadly, as if he had thought about this for a long time, and no longer felt much grief.  

            "Then why? Is it not easier to go? You could hide in Manyfolk, or Eastmyr, they will never find you if you are careful.  If you require money, I could find some for you," I offered quickly.  I had come to see Soelisk as a friend, probably my closest one, at present.

            Soelisk looked away for a moment, then back at me, and I knew what he was going to say.  "Saole.  If Malice wins, she dies."

            "Does it matter that much?" I asked, again blunt, "Does she care for you?"

            Soelisk's reply was drawn out, and filled with so much underlying grief that for a moment I could not look into his eyes.  "Yes, it matters… even though I know she does not care for me.  I…" he rubbed a finger over one of the scars on his face self-consciously, "disgust her. I can see it.  She hides it well."  This last was said somewhat neutrally, as if it was some objective contemplation.

            "If you are trying to get me to help Reprise, you are not doing a very good job of it," I said dryly.  

            "I know," Soelisk admitted, "But I was a little tired of the entire thing.  I am, however, asking you now, as a friend, to help Reprise."

            "I cannot promise you that," I said, biting my lip as a vision of Malice and her near-unearthly beauty surfaced in my mind.

            "Or at least promise me not to help Malice.  It will not matter either way – neither side will hurt you or try to alienate you, because they need you as a weapon master.  Please, Zaknafein," Soelisk said, the note of pleading evident in his voice and his eyes, "I know I do not have any right to ask you this, but please."

            "Will you be content if I simply said I would try?" I said finally.

            "I would," Soelisk said, looking relieved.  "Thank you."

            As I stood up to leave – Matron Daermone would, of course, like to see me in the Chapel – Soelisk clasped my hand in thanks once again. 

            I decided to say something, to try and dissuade him.  "Is self-sacrifice really worth it, Soelisk? In death, does not everything lose its meaning?"

            "Does it?" Soelisk returned, a little sadly.  "I am afraid, Zaknafein, that there is something, some state, after death, where you retain your consciousness and your regrets.  Then, if I died for Saole, then I may be at peace."

            "How much like an _Ilythiiri_ do you sound like?"

            Soelisk's eyes seemed to flash fire for a moment, and I saw I had finally touched a nerve.  "Living your life the way someone else thinks you should always struck me as extremely…" he paused here, breathing heavily, as if groping for the correct word, then snarled, "_vithin' stupid.  You will never __be alive if you live that way.  Whenever someone says I should act some way because of what I am, I… but you have no time for a useless Dark Elf's ramblings," he concluded, misinterpreting my pursed lip as impatience._

            "No, no… I…"

            "Just… never… or try not to, do something because of what others think you are, but because you want to," Soelisk smiled then, suddenly, "Occasionally more fun."

            I snorted.  "Is that not dangerous?"

            "Is this life…" Soelisk pointed at his face, and then flicked his wrist to indicate the bare, empty Weapons Hall, "really worth living?" 

            And I saw, at last, the problem – the terrible emptiness that seemed to have yawned open between the space of this year and the last, the painful, aching chasm of hopelessness behind his eyes.  He had lied, I knew – what he was trying to do was not for himself, as he had intimated, but for another, and he really, truly did not fully understand why he wished to act this way.  That was my first true experience with the most popularised side of the unnamed emotion, and at that time, there was nothing I could say.   

            "You _will _die, you know," I warned him again, when I reached the door, trying to impress the seriousness of this potential occurrence on him.

            Soelisk nodded, as if unable to speak, then bowed and left for his room.

            I closed the door, and then gasped when I saw Saole right outside it.  Hurriedly, I bowed and greeted her, extending apologies for not noticing her earlier.  Had she heard everything?

            "Greetings, Zaknafein," Saole said.  She seemed to have changed a little as well – she seemed a little distracted and troubled, though it could have been just the Festival that was worrying her.  "Is Soelisk in there?" 

            "Yes, _malla Yathrin_," I said, cautiously.  

            Saole nodded, said something polite and forgettable, and then entered the Weapons Hall.  Shaking my head, I decided to go and find Matron Daermone.  It would probably be somewhat more enlightening.

**

            Malice never said anything to me in all the Festivals while I was still in Melee-Magthere – partly because I was always too… nervous about going too close to her, such that I attempted, as much as possible, to keep my distance.  Matron Daermone seemed to approve of this as much as how she seemed to smirk each time I evaded conversations with Reprise.  As far as she was concerned, I was following her wishes.

            That was partly true – I avoided Reprise because of Soelisk, though I was careful not to show any sort of hostility, and I was at best polite to Saole, trying to give the impression of respect but disinterest at the same time.  I did not want her to transfer her attentions to me, at least – though I suspected what she was doing to Soelisk was nothing to do with softly gaining his trust and cooperation.  What she was likely to be doing to him was breaking him, with words, which can cut deeper and harder than weapons, and which Priestesses are generally adept at wielding.  You could see him dying inside, year after year – it is hard to describe how exactly I knew it.  Perhaps that was why he was content to try and aid Reprise to the throne – it would be a personal accomplishment, possibly the last he would ever do before his spirit passed away.

            I still felt then that what he was doing was infinitely foolish, going along with Saole, but my attempts to dissuade him, over the years, just eventually brought a shut down to his face whenever I broached the subject.  After the fifth year, what we did talk about whenever we met were neutral subjects like the living conditions in Melee-Magthere.

            Now, when I think of it, he would have had no choice either way, even if unaffected by the unnamed emotion – a Priestess' word is law to a male, theoretically, and he would have had to follow her if she ordered it.  I was in the near-unique position of being able to choose because of the well-matched Malice and Reprise – allowed to be the unknown factor that could tip the scales to either side.  

            I avoided Malice also because of Soelisk, but it was not a result of my agreement with him.  It was because I saw his state of mind and circumstances as a warning – a warning of what might happen if I got as involved with Malice as he was with Saole, and believed love to indeed be as much a terrible weakness as I had been taught – a weakness that, like but worse than a wasting disease, welled up within you and burned your mind and soul, and that could place you so utterly and pathetically under the control of another that you could die, your heart stabbed slowly by a twisting, unseen dagger forged of cruel words.  

**

            I suppose I should comment on the yearly Melees (also known as grand melees), since they are the most famous aspect of a stay in Melee-Magthere.  There is actually a trick to surviving them – basically, you do not advertise your presence such that the others believe the only way to defeat you is to group up on you, you pace yourself, and you pick your fights carefully.  Do _not try and fight every single person in your class – make yourself scarce and try and space out your fights, as even the best fighter, if very tired, will make very serious mistakes.  Sleep well beforehand and take the hour's break before the Melee to do some judicious exercise that will loosen your muscles and warm you up for the fight.  And do not work with anyone.  Remember, only one can win._

            The first Melee is easy – it is new, the students have never been pitted against each other all at one time before, and therefore have no real plan as to what to do.  If you can, take out the hardest by himself, then face the others slowly – let them fight themselves.  I nearly lost the first Melee, as what I was doing was fighting as many people as I could find, lost in the heat and fierce joy of battle, such that when facing the last student I was almost spent.  It was only by good fortune that he was as tired as I was, and made a slip when he fell for a feint that, if he were fresh, he would have noticed.

            After that, especially if you won the first Melee, the rest get more and more difficult to win.  The students become progressively better through practice in the Academy – especially in terms of stamina and strength, and the smart ones also take the time to refine their technique as well as observe that of others.  The very smart ones notice the favourite moves of their classmates, and think of counters that they can try out on said classmates in the mock battles throughout the year before the Melee.  You can afford to lose a mock battle, after all – I certainly did lose a few when some of my 'counters' turned out to be flawed - it is only the Melees that are truly difficult.  

            After my second year, however, I did not get to try out any more 'counters' on my classmates – though with some modification they could be make generic for certain moves, as the Masters, realizing that my level of training was somewhat above that of my classmates, decided to put me in senior-class Melees.  I won those too – they were actually a little simpler.  Fighting against students whom you have fought against for years makes you a little less on your guard when you enter the grand melee – after all, you have counters and knowledge of them.  Fighting against students years my senior – though they were in general somewhat better in the Dance, they were still not my match, especially since older students tended to underestimate younger ones, despite what they may have been told about said younger one.  More importantly, fighting against the unknown made me warier and more alert than I would have been against my own class.

            Sol'ranr taught me other variants of _Seo'ur_, including one which did not involve partners, but individual skill.  Needless to say, in just about all of such games, he won.  I realized to some personal amusement that he usually announced that we would play such a game if we had at sometime in the day fought and he had lost. 

            With some bemusement – though I noticed Bae'lan did not seem too surprised – the Masters made it such that during each Melee, I was to join the ninth-year Melee students.  It was considerably more fun than fighting my classmates.  After all, I had the rest of every year to clash against them.  Significantly, once a year I could get my hands on adamantite weapons.

            The ninth year actually managed to stay consistently interesting.  Firstly, we were allowed to use adamantite weapons all the way through it as we practiced in the Academy as well as in the Underdark.  The 'practice patrols', my group headed by Bae'lan, and the other by the Master V'akar, would best be described as periods of boredom and walking followed by short bursts of excitement whenever we actually found a monster unlucky enough to fall into our path.  As I held the first rank in my class, I usually got first go at the monster, since I was at point position and was only really required to signal to them that there was a monster, and I was going to kill it.  

            The second highlight of the ninth year was that I finally beat Sol'ranr and the others fairly at individual _Seo'ur_.  Sol'ranr promised to treat me to some wine at a drinking pit come the Festival, knowing full well that Matron Daermone would not allow me to go.

**

            The only practice patrol I could really remember (other than the embarrassing one involving a cave fisher, myself, and Inofein, who had attempted to cut the strings I had gotten stuck in) was the one the Academy pulls yearly on ninth-years, which involves monsters and a child, supposedly of a high-ranking noble House.  Generally this brutal stunt is pulled after a few hours into a patrol, such that the mind is already so focussed on the surroundings that it fails to figure out what a child of a Noble House would be doing by itself all alone away from the City.

            The monsters are generally hook horrors – which are difficult but not too difficult, and not sentient, which is even better.  They also have a tendency to take a few hours before killing their prey, unlike some other monsters – after all, the Academy would not think it as 'entertaining' if the child had been eaten before the patrol could get there – no incentive.  Hook horrors are also willing to work in groups, which solved another problem – previous attempts at grouping monsters together had more often than not just caused the monsters to try and shred each other into pieces.

            I did not know all this then – I was at point, and like all those at point position before and after me, I caught the 'student' who, under Bae'lan's eye, gasped out the location and situation of the child.

            My class reacted smoothly – we speeded up, and I moved deeper into point, worried, but not very much so – children were just units to me then, like most other Dark Elves, and I was not, then, willing to risk personal danger, the patrol and disgrace to my House by rushing blindly ahead.  

            We were lucky – extremely lucky – to have this patrol before the Academy found the best place for it, where the ledge above the monsters was not so high, and where there was enough gravel on the run before the area such that they would know that the patrol was coming, and therefore be prepared when we were upon them – making the fight harder.

            I heard the monsters before I could see them, of course, and gripped my swords more tightly, then made a decision and levitated.  It takes effort to levitate, and I tried not to use too much of my energy, keeping closely to the roof and moving as fast as I could without abandoning the group.

            On hindsight, the child was lucky – the monsters were not hungry, or their playing would have been rougher and she would have been disabled.  She was picked older – a child of eleven or so – than what is normal now, and had, with surprising resourcefulness, freed herself from her confinement in a blanket.  Once I was near enough to see the hook horrors, I could see her – a small speck on the infrared, bleeding from a cut on her back and from some minor ones on her arms – bright lines in the infrared - and dodging as fast as she could. 

            The sobs and wordless screams struck a deep chord in me - and I was nearly overcome by a surge of rage more intense than I had ever felt.  Discipline managed to take over quickly enough for me to form a relatively simple – if reckless – strategy – I levitated down into their midst – past the first two sentries - and snarled a challenge, trying to draw their attention to me.  It worked partially – the three chasing the child paused a moment, and the sentries started towards me, but were immediately engaged by the rest of the patrol.  The child, with cry of relief, started to run towards me.  

            Instinct took over – I sheathed my left sword, and in a dead run, scooped her up with the free arm.  By then, the first horror was upon me, skittering, huge blades scouring gouges in the ground where it missed me.  One blade – three horrors – the odds were definitely not on my side… 

            I managed to parry a slice, and then had to duck another, backing quickly towards the sentries and their battles.  It was a space of a few hundred metres, and I knew I could not levitate the entire distance – too tired – stupid, had pushed myself too much, trying to get past the sentries… my blade glanced off the hard carapace of one, and recovered in time to block the slice of the second, but the third opened a small gash on the arm carrying the whimpering child, barely missing her by inches.  Backing off quickly, I found myself against the first, and nearly lost my eyes, feeling with a shiver the hiss of air when I dodged.   

            I ran towards it towards the third, seeing it brace itself, claws slicing the air before it to form a whirlwind of protective blades, but then I changed course suddenly for the second, its claws widening slightly in surprise – stupid creature – a bound mixed with minor levitation and my blade accurately found its eye, impaling its head just deep enough to reach its brain, hissed in pain as a claw stabbed into my leg, then I pushed off it in another levitation-aided jump through sheer force of will, wishing the girl would stop screaming, flicking the blood from the blade at the third.  It flinched reflexively, even though none of the drops hit it, enough for three of the patrol, who had been creeping along the ledge, to drop down on it.  A crash and a thud behind me informed me that the second was either dead or deeply wounded enough to be out of the fight, and a glance showed the first was also involved with my classmates.  So I set off on a limping run towards the sentries, forcing myself to ignore the pain and the bleeding, managing somehow to dodge stabbing claws and flashing blades as my classmates made an opening for me.  I ran to a safe distance, put down the child as gently as I could, told her gruffly to stay put, and then went back to the fight.

            It was instinct, if stupid instinct – I was injured, and would have been better off staying with the child.  I drew my second sword, ignoring the numb feeling in my left arm from the gash, and got into the fight in time to aid Bae'lan and two others against one of the sentries.  The sentry went for me – logically, I was the most injured, and therefore the most vulnerable – and made a heavy swing at me with a claw that knocked me down when I tried to block – my leg gave in and collapsed underneath me.  The second stab would have killed me if Bae'lan had not used the opening and the change of attention to stab between a gap in its carapace.  It screeched in pain, turning on Bae'lan, wildly swinging its claws, but Bae'lan smoothly recovered, watched the claws intently, then stabbed again, impaling it in the joint between head and thorax, and it stumbled back, pulling itself off from the weapon, and collapsed, nearly on top of the other sentry.

            Gasping, still on the ground and definitely out of it for the moment, I watched the students run off to take care of the other sentry.  Bae'lan walked up to me and nodded curtly.  "Well done.  Stupid, but well done."

            I glared at him.  "I saw no other way of approaching it at that moment."

            Bae'lan shook his head sadly, as if he understood something that eluded me, and then shouted instructions at the students fighting the remaining hook horrors.  I took the moment to try and catch my breath, and then painfully sat up to inspect the leg wound.  There was no priestess in the group, and practice patrols did not have potions, so I ripped off some of my sleeve for some rudimentary first aid.  The numbness of my left arm made this somewhat inexpert, but Bae'lan paused from his shouting long enough to make a disapproving noise and help.

            When it was done, the patrol went quickly to the child, who, though frightened, had been safe for the rest of the fight.  She squeaked as one student checked her clothing.  

            "Not a noble!" his words were incredulous.

            As one, we looked to Bae'lan.  He shrugged.  "Misinformation," he dismissed curtly.  "We will bring her back to Menzoberranzan."  

            The walk back was painful.  I was, like the rest of the badly injured, supported by the few who were less so, and it seemed like somewhat of a dead march.  We had lost one student out of what Bae'lan called 'further stupidity', and had to endure the aura of his irritation all the way back.  

            Once we were safely in Menzoberranzan, Bae'lan turned to the child.  "Leave now," he snapped, gesturing with his weapon.  She gasped.  

            "Should we not try and find her some medical aid?" I asked, astonished at his attitude.  "Some of those cuts look deep."

            "She is not even noble-born," Bae'lan retorted coldly.  "No insignia – not even with a House!"

            "I too, am not noble-born!"

            Bae'lan looked me up and down coolly.  "She is _not you.  And she is only a waif, a useless one.  If she does not die from the wounds, she would no doubt die in a few years, caught stealing at a booth or used for entertainment by roving soldiers.  She should count herself lucky for having survived this, and not suffering punishment for being out in the Underdark by herself." _

            The child looked pleadingly at me, and those frightened, pain-filled eyes hurt me more than the gash in my leg, but at another "Leave!" from Bae'lan, she ran, stumbling and sobbing, into the streets, disappearing into an alley.  

            I was about to start after her, but Sol'ranr probably saved my life then, without knowing it – he was the one supporting my weight.  His tightened grip on my shoulders prevented me from moving after her – an act of disobedience that would definitely have spurred Bae'lan's irritation to newer and possibly murderous heights – as he thought my step in the child's direction to be a stagger due to my injury.  I had to content myself at shooting a glance of hatred at Bae'lan, but fortunately, he had turned away, and did not see it.

            Sometimes I still wake, sweating in the Black Death of Narbondel, at the memory of those eyes.  


	13. Intersection

Additional Notes: I just hate it whenever Microsoft Word crashes and I didn't save, and *then* it forgets to Recover Document. Grrr.  Anyway, sorry about using this character (Nalfein) again, and with a different personality at that, but I tend to get over fond of some of the characters who actually have tiny roles in the books.  Sorry.  

Intersection

            "I had hoped that you had given up."

            The Mage looked up from whatever he had been studying with the unhurried dignity of age, vaguely curious, slightly affronted, but lacking the irritated impatience that he would have exhibited centuries ago.  

            "I never give up," Jarlaxle said with an impish grin, removing his hat archly and bowing in an elaborate greeting.

            "Act your age, mercenary," the Mage returned to the scroll, tracing the symbols lovingly.  The candlelight threw burnished highlights on the black skin of his hand, fashioning a resemblance to the hue of polished bronze viewed in deep water.

            "I always feel young in the presence of someone older than myself."

            The Mage snorted, not even bothering to glance up.  "Go away."

            "So I ask again, do you still hold to the wager?"

            "Yes, yes," the Mage said absently, then tucked a lock of white hair that had fallen over his eyes behind a pointed ear.  Tentatively, it slid out again, slipping across keen black eyes that seemed to hold the knowledge of several lifetimes.  "Just go away.  If you see fit to bother me with more females, this time, try to find someone with a higher intellect than a snail."

            "I will hold you to it," Jarlaxle said with satisfaction, then bowed and left the room with a spring in his step that the Mage, immersed in his parchments, did not notice.

**

            "This city is beautiful," S'kaerik said happily, when she returned to the room prepared for her and saw Jarlaxle waiting in it.  In her excitement, she forgot to scold him for dropping in so unexpectedly.  "It's so beautiful!"

            "And to think I had to persuade you to come," Jarlaxle said dryly.  "Mages like beauty.  Some think it is a character flaw."

            "Oh no, it's not," S'kaerik smiled.  "Sshamath was built by mages, then?"

            Jarlaxle shrugged.  "I do not know.  It was certainly improved by mages, bit by bit, over the years."

            "But everything seems so… sculptured and graceful.  And what kind of stone did they use? Smooth and nearly as white as marble, but…"

            "In certain angles or under some lights, you could swear there are veins of precious stone or metal in them," Jarlaxle finished, seemingly quoting something.  "It is difficult to find, and expensive, but mages will be mages.  It was not like this when Menzoberranzan was still alive," he added, a little pensively.

            "And you can't even see all the machinery," S'kaerik grinned slyly.  

            "Machinery, Lady Cat?" Jarlaxle feigned astonishment.  "Why, can your lovely eyes see through stone and metal?"

            S'kaerik blushed.  "Stop teasing me.  The hints are out there for anyone with half of a working mind to see.  There's an efficient sewage system, very modern-looking fountains, a very well hidden and highly advanced electricity network, and the clocks seem very advanced.  That sort of thing."

            "Your insight will put the entire learned world to shame, Lady Cat."

            "If you're trying to tempt me into fighting with you, it's working."

            "Actually, I wanted you to meet Nalfein, but if you do want to train, I am always available." Jarlaxle grinned when S'kaerik visibly flinched at the last.  

            "Eh… no, no thanks," she said hastily, tail twitching nervously.  "Once is enough.  As to meeting Nalfein…"

            "That is, if you are not too busy."  Jarlaxle looked pointedly around her room.  Unpacked travel cases were stacked neatly near the comfortable bed, and the generator sat sullenly in a corner, as if eyeing the power outlets set neatly into the wall with envy.  

            "Would he know anything about engineering? I would greatly like to speak with an engineer," S'kaerik said.  She had inspected said outlets earlier, and had marvelled at how the Dark Elves seemed to have channelled electricity – she would have to find what source they were using – to homes without wires all over the place and hanging over the streets.  Was there magic involved?

            That was quite a likely possibility, and this was a Mage city, after all… the Company and the Surface World would definitely benefit from this venture, if the Mages were as forthcoming with their knowledge as they were with money and resources.  The light bulbs that had come with the train were very solemnly and ceremonially received, though not by the senior Mages themselves. 

            "He is a Mage Lord, here," Jarlaxle said, with a grin when she looked up sharply.

            "I thought the Mage Lords of Sshamath only spoke to the senior staff, if at all," she said cautiously, suddenly uncertain about the entire business.  She had only seen glimpses of the rulers of Sshamath in their finery, watching the Company unload things and people.  Emissaries had been sent in their stead to welcome the train, as if anything less than a Mage Lord was beneath their notice, which was rather obviously the case.

            "He was not originally of Sshamath, and these days, he is somewhat more interested in history than magic."

            "That certainly sounds strange," S'kaerik smiled, sitting down cross-legged on her bed, and inviting Jarlaxle to take a seat at the sofas.  "Though not as strange as the fact that he's older than you are."

            "That was actually mildly insulting, Lady Cat," Jarlaxle grinned, "You make me sound positively ancient.  'Older than you' indeed."

            "But you _are_ ancient," S'kaerik smirked.  "Every time I look at you I have to prevent myself from jumping on you and putting you away in a museum in a glass tank and a bronze plaque.  But seriously," she said, before Jarlaxle could retort, "How much older, actually?"

            "I lost count, Lady Cat," Jarlaxle said with a grin. 

            "I don't believe you.  And have a seat, please, you're making my legs feel tired."

            "I was going to ask you to meet him right now."

            "Now?" S'kaerik looked a little panicky.  "But I won't be a very good conversationalist – I'm a bit tired, and I haven't bathed, and my hair's in a mess…"

            "Cats always look – and smell - fine," Jarlaxle said with a wink.  "And I am sure you will charm him in any state, Lady Cat."

            "If I didn't know better I'd think you were flirting with me," S'kaerik said dryly, but allowed herself to be led.

**

            "He doesn't seem to be a very sociable creature," S'kaerik remarked, when Jarlaxle explained that the reason they had to go first to Bregan D'aerthe was because there were only two spots in the city where there was something that could lead to Nalfein's place – Bregan D'aerthe headquarters and the Mage School.  

            "Those are for outsiders.  He can go anywhere he wants to, but generally he cannot be bothered to nowadays," Jarlaxle said, considering whether or not he should reveal the nature of the wager to S'kaerik like he had to previous females, and then deciding not to, "He thinks it is more interesting to use his mind to 'walk' around.  Perhaps you could persuade him otherwise."

            "And what makes you think a Mage Lord would listen to me?" S'kaerik smiled nervously.  Jarlaxle realized with some amusement that she was devoutly wishing that she had insisted on cleaning up a little first, by the way she surreptitiously combed at her hair and glanced at her reflection worriedly in the glass of some illuminated shop windows.  Her ears were nearly flat against her head in anxiety, and her tail kept moving across the long, fur-covered legs.

            "Everyone would listen to you, Lady Cat," Jarlaxle said expansively, and grinned when S'kaerik blushed, as he knew she would.  Needling her was still a noticeable source of fun.

            "If he turns me into a toad, it's your fault."

**

            Her first impression of the place was that of sinister majesty.  A 'pocket plane', Jarlaxle had called it – one of the last few remaining.  Most of them had become unstable after some incident on the surface, long before the Awareness, as the Weyr-Cats generally called the start of their civilisation proper, and it had not been well-recorded in histories.  After all, few Surface people actually did use pocket planes.  

            "You had one, I think," S'kaerik said to Jarlaxle, when he told her about it.

            "I had several," Jarlaxle's smile was wry, as if at the memory of a loss.  "I also had a _lot of things I liked inside them, when they all folded up into oblivion."_

            "Folded up?" S'kaerik looked warily around them.  They were in a tall, domed room, with graceful buttresses and arches that merged toward the very centre of the ceiling and seemed to plunge down in a glittering, frozen waterfall of gold flecks that, on closer inspection, turned out to be a cunningly wrought crystal chandelier illuminated from within with a golden magelight hearts.  The flecks seemed to tumble towards a water-filled stone bowl, a metre or so in diameter, held up to the height of S'kaerik's shoulder by some sort of dark sculpture whose form seemed to evade her eye whenever she tried to find the details.  Just looking at it made her skin crawl, anyway, so, with the prudence of a Cat, she carefully ignored it.  

            "Do not worry, Lady Cat, I am relatively sure this plane is stable," Jarlaxle, that rogue, smiled rather evilly when she shot him an apprehensive look.  The smile widened when she held up a hand, pretending to examine it, and slid out the claws for a moment in warning.  

            "We should not keep him waiting," he said, and wandered off towards one of the four large metal doors.  S'kaerik sighed, and followed, trying to ignore the carvings and sculptures that decorated the walls.  Some of them were particularly disturbing.  In marked contrast, the floor was made of plain stone tiles.

            Life-sized stone statues of Dark Elves, male and female, in armour or robes, crouched on ledges above each door.  Their eyes were closed, as if in meditation, lips curled as if in a snarl.  Those were disturbing too, and S'kaerik kept as close to Jarlaxle as she could without being intrusive.  She was definitely worried about this now.

            Jarlaxle put his hand on the door, and S'kaerik had to bite down a cry of fear when the stone Elf above that door opened his eyes – white stones against black obsidian - and slowly, grindingly, looked down at them.  Jarlaxle chuckled, but ignored her glare. 

            "We seek Nalfein," Jarlaxle told the Elf conversationally.  "I am Jarlaxle, and this is my companion, S'kaerik."  S'kaerik shuddered visibly when the stone Elf looked searchingly at her, and then let out a sound of relief when he closed his eyes and leant back into his former position.

            Noiselessly, the door swung inwards. 

            "More statues!" S'kaerik tried, with some success, to keep her voice from turning into an undignified squeak of horror, when they stepped into the long, high-ceilinged corridor.  The dusty, rotting path of red carpet was lined on either side by statues of Dark Elves.  Each statue, its arm outstretched slightly, held in a palm a dim magelight, as if in supplication.  Behind them, on both walls, was some sort of picture, details so worn as to be nearly invisible.  Despite herself, the historian part of S'kaerik tried to get her to take a closer look, but she managed to restrain herself. 

            "It is a metaphor," Jarlaxle explained, walking unhurriedly through the silent parade of stone.  

            "For what?" S'kaerik asked nervously, sniffing the air.  Thankfully for her sanity, these statues seemed inanimate.  "You came here recently?"

            "I always visit him when I come to Sshamath," Jarlaxle said, reaching the end of the corridor – another door, this one, thankfully, without an awakening stone statue.  The door opened before them to show the most massive library S'kaerik had ever seen.  "As to the exact metaphor, I cannot really remember."

            The light was brighter here, illuminating most of the titles, though the faint scent of decay was just as present here as it was in the corridor.  As they walked past towering bookcases and untidy stacks of ancient tomes, S'kaerik wondered aloud how big the room was.  Looking up, she could just barely see another level of bookcases, with a graceful stairway leading up to it.

            Jarlaxle shrugged.  "He keeps adding extensions to it.  A few centuries ago it was nearing the size of Melee-Magthere."

            S'kaerik's eyes were shining, and her ears had pricked up.  "I think you may just have showed me something more beautiful than the city," she admitted.  "The value of all these books must be immense."

            "Not all of them are history," Jarlaxle smiled at her enthusiasm.  "He keeps the spell books on another level.

            "I can only see one other level."

            "If you walk a little more into the library, you will find entrances to other floors, like the one that just contains scrolls," Jarlaxle said, "And, without the proper knowledge, you will get lost."

            S'kaerik realized she could not see the door anymore, nor anything around them other then bookshelves.  "I would greatly like to read some of these… are they all in Dark Elven?"

            "No," Jarlaxle said, "He collects books a little indiscriminately.  Some of them are in your Surfacer tongues, Lady Cat."

            "Okay… what do you mean by indiscriminately?"

            "The subject of Nalfein's books range from Nature to machinery and even fictional works," Jarlaxle shrugged.  "Eternity is a long time."

            "Do you have a library like this too?" S'kaerik grinned.  

            "No," Jarlaxle said, with mock modesty, "But I like to think I have the value of its equivalent in my vaults and in my influence."

            "He collected books, and you collected money and power?"

            "Something like that, Lady Cat," Jarlaxle grinned.  "Money, and certainly power, give me quite a bit more pleasure than towers of books and parchment."

            "Does he just read books all day long?" S'kaerik asked enviously.

            "No, sometimes he spends a little effort collecting some more," Jarlaxle said dryly, "And since he likes to read slowly, he has not as yet finished reading all the books in this library."

            "I should think not," S'kaerik breathed.  They turned a corner, and had to walk in single file – the bookcases were packed very closely here.  "I am beginning to envy you Elves your lifetimes.  How does he find anything?"

            "Apparently a filing system exists, but I have never figured it out," Jarlaxle admitted.  "Personally I think he just magicks whatever he wants out of the shelves.  He is very… sedentary.  Only goes out of the library for Mage Lord meetings, but since the other Lords are as inclined to privacy as he is, the meetings do not happen very often."

            "Do they have massive libraries too?" S'kaerik realized she was asking questions like a child from a teacher, and began to feel nervous again.  Most of the books looked much older than she was.

            "Not as large as this one," Jarlaxle said.  "You might like to know that you are the first non-Dark Elf to step into this place, Lady Cat."

            "Should I feel honoured?" The hollow, faint echo of words was mildly disturbing. 

            "If you wish."

            It seemed to S'kaerik as if they had been walking for ages, taking so many turns that she was by now quite hopelessly lost and slightly claustrophobic, though she gathered the mage would not appreciate her climbing to the top of the shelves to take a look around her.

            "How can he stand to stay in one spot for all of his life?"

            "Do you not love books, Lady Cat?" 

            "I'd go stark staring mad if I had to stay by myself for the rest of my life, even surrounded by books."

            "Perhaps you could charm him out of the library, Lady Cat," Jarlaxle said archly, "With promises of wonder and the outside world."

            "If he doesn't turn me into a toad."

            "He might not know what a toad is."

            "I doubt it," S'kaerik said dryly, gesturing at the bookshelves.  The path had widened, such that they were able to walk together again.  "There are probably a few hundred books on them here."

            "Perhaps not that many, Lady Cat," Jarlaxle smirked.  "And you can always hope that he has forgotten how to use polymorph spells."

            "I notice that the older Mages get, the more they surround themselves with wands that have the spells for them," S'kaerik said dryly.  "He may have rooms full of those things."

            "Maybe that is what the other doors lead to," Jarlaxle suggested thoughtfully, and she got the feeling that he had, in the past, provided some time towards trying to find out what was behind the other doors.

            "You've never been in those?"

            "He has never allowed me in any other area other than the library."

            "I wonder why," S'kaerik grinned.

            "Are you suggesting something, Lady Cat," Jarlaxle said, pretending to be hurt.  "I am quite sure I do not know what you are talking about."

            "Oh really."

            "I was quite well known to his family."

            "Perhaps that was the problem."

            Jarlaxle raised an eyebrow at her.  "Sorry," S'kaerik said sheepishly.  "That was rude.  I get impolite when I'm nervous."

            "Why are you nervous, Lady Cat?"

            "I'm in a massive library, lost, and about to meet a powerful Dark Elf mage when feeling tired and dressed in work clothes?"

            "Ah."  This seemed to amuse him, to her mild irritation.

            "Must we do this now?" S'kaerik asked plaintively.

            "You did agree, Lady Cat."

            S'kaerik sighed.  "The dwarves had better suggest to the Company that I get a pay rise."

**

            Nalfein Do'Urden exuded a different aura of power than Jarlaxle, S'kaerik noted.  Jarlaxle's had always seemed to be organisational – the power of Bregan D'aerthe, while Nalfein's power seemed to radiate from within – a mage's power? He looked up at them from his writing, and the magelight in the room intensified a little.  Jarlaxle he favoured with a vague look of mild astonishment mingled with irritation, but the piercing gaze lingered curiously on herself.  S'kaerik bit her lip, feeling more like an intruder than ever.

            The eyes turned back to Jarlaxle, and he said something in the High Tongue sharply, too quick for S'kaerik to catch, the music in his voice managing to convey petulance, annoyance and curiosity at the interruption all at once.  S'kaerik realized that Nalfein's hair was unstyled, not like the other Dark Elves she had seen – it was just a long mane of white that flowed down to his waist.  

            Jarlaxle replied, apparently amused, and then bowed mockingly to Nalfein when the other elf sighed.  

            "Have a nice day, Lady Cat," Jarlaxle turned to her suddenly, tipping his hat as if in farewell.

            "We're leaving already?" S'kaerik looked at Nalfein nervously.  His handsome face was unreadable, but the stare was beginning to make her feel very skittish.  Now she knew what a mouse felt like when cornered by a house-cat.

            "_I am leaving," Jarlaxle corrected, then grinned wickedly when she began to protest.  "When my business concludes, I will return."_

            "But…" she glanced at Nalfein again.  This time, he inclined his head politely in greeting, tendrils of white dropping down over his eyes, and then gestured gracefully towards one of the chairs.  The books that had been lying on it lifted up and piled themselves neatly against the wall.  This managed to unnerve her even more than his stare.

            Warily, she sat down as demurely as someone dressed in shorts and a tank top could, mind racing, wondering what to say.  Jarlaxle said something to Nalfein again, then tipped his hat to the mage and left the reading room, quickly disappearing into the bookshelves outside, leaving her alone with the ancient, obviously powerful mage.

            The pay rise had definitely _better _be substantial.


	14. Part 7: Sorcere

Additional notes: I don't know the average magic resistance of Dark Elves, but in Baldur's Gate II, Viconia, the evil Dark Elven priestess who can join your party had a natural magic resistance of around 70/100.  Magic resistance in Baldur's Gate II does not count as psionic magic resistance, however.

The _Seo'ur_ thing is getting mildly out of hand, but I noticed that (maybe it's just be) in all the schools I've been into so far, there has always been one or two prevailing games where just about everyone is mad about.  So far, I've seen… uno, bridge, blackjack, 'tai ti', Chinese chess and carumn, among others.  The 'weird' chess with 'white and black seeds' as described in the story is Weiqi, not reversi, but I don't understand reversi either.  I was forced to learn how to play Weiqi, and I still don't understand it. 

I am also making up the bit about patrols and Masters from now on, because I'm too lazy to find the exact statistics, especially since I'm not gaining any chocolates from this.  Don't kill me.

--

Part 7

Sorcere

            The enforced months at Sorcere were even more boring than Melee-Magthere – the parts devoted to magic, that is to say.  There was no fighting, and magic always manages to weary me.  As a Dark Elf, with a natural innate resistance to magic, spells have never been very impressive.  With a bit of luck and speed, lightning bolts flung in an _Ilythiiri's_ direction may at best just cause a few mild shocks to his or her system.  It looked more impressive than the Dance, of course, but if a warrior is careful, he can best a mage.  Just about the only wands that I have ever truly found useful were those of magic negation, for use against those annoying magical shields against weapons.

            I cannot remember the name of the student mage who instructed me, except that he was boring whenever he tried to teach me.  However, for some reason – perhaps because it was a game of mental stimulation – he was a _Seo'ur_ player, and when his Master was not around, we occasionally guiltily played two-player variants in the room.  After all, having even more years of study to go than I did, he had to take his entertainment where he could find it.  In return for learning some new tricks in the game, I taught him how to use his staff as a melee weapon.  

            From the accounts of my classmates, apparently this arrangement, at least at that time, was not too unusual.  Sol'ranr's teacher was also a _Seo'ur_ player, and I definitely hoped for him that both of them finished whatever Sol'ranr was to learn, considering my teacher remarked once that Sol'ranr's teacher was 'as fanatical a player as his student'.  

            I also learned how to play chess, and got much better at it more quickly than _Seo'ur, perhaps because it was a type of fighting.  I gathered that, despite popular opinion, most student mages who had to undergo a teaching stint were those who were more tolerant towards warriors – there had been several 'accidents' on both sides in the past until the Academy decided to make this an unspoken rule.  Unless a Matron or some female with influence for some reason decides to pull strings, you generally end up with a student mage who will do his job, and possibly take the time to play chess or _Seo'ur_.  After all, except if they were in their dormitories, student mages spend all the rest of their time under supervision._

            I learnt all the required cantrips and spells quickly – the student mage went along at a brisk, manageable pace once we got past the basics – and therefore, we finished the syllabus ahead of time and spent most of the rest of our days 'studying' chess or _Seo'ur_.  There were three variants of Dark Elven chess which I learnt, though I preferred the classic one with castles, pawns, kings and such more than the strange weird one involving white and black 'seeds'.  The latter I never really understood, especially the crucial point on how to know whether or not I was winning.  You could have more seeds on the board than your opponent, and still be losing.    

            Occasionally I saw Nalfein wandering around Sorcere on errands for his Master, but not often.  When we did meet in corridors, we greeted each other politely, but otherwise did not engage in conversation.  Nalfein looked considerably more at peace in Sorcere than in all the times I had seen him in the House at the Festivals where he mainly registered in the background as a slightly harried, nervous creature, possibly because of the lack of his mother.

            Nalfein is one of those strange, rare beings who manage to find a consistent inner peace whenever engaged in a certain activity.  In his case, it was reading – reading anything, apparently.  I saw his face once, a little inexpertly hidden behind a tome as he was studying in the library at Sorcere, where I had been sent by my teacher to retrieve something, and it was startling in its quiet, absorbed calm, an emotion that I had beforehand never associated with Dark Elves, regardless of their religious slant.

            It took him several moments to realize I was staring at him, then his mind seem to come unstuck from whatever plane of concentration he previously occupied.  "Greetings, Zaknafein Do'Urden.  May I help you?"

            "Greetings, Nalfein Do'Urden," I had replied as formally, then sketched out the nature of my errand.  Absently, he waved at a shelf, and, to my astonishment, a book slid out from it and hovered in the air.  Nalfein blinked once then, slowly, as if something just occurred to him, then, a little furtively, he went to the shelf and picked up the book himself, thrusting it at me, before returning to his tome and pointedly ignoring me.  

            I described this rather strange event to my teacher later. 

            "Oh, that," the mage said dismissively.  "He keeps forgetting."

            "Forgetting what?"

            "Apparently psionic power is hereditary," the mage said mildly.  "His mother is psychic, and so is he – though his psionic power mainly surfaces as telekinesis."

            This term meant absolutely nothing to me, and I said so.

            "Moving things with his mind," the mage elaborated helpfully, his eyes still fixed on the chess board.  He moved his castle.  "Check."

            "I have never heard of a Dark Elf being able to do that," I said, blocking his move and taking his bishop.  The mage cursed quietly.

            "Blast, I keep forgetting to pay attention to the knights," the mage grumbled.  "Yes, it is very rare.  Nalfein's Master gets irrationally irritated whenever he sees Nalfein doing it.  No one has much of an idea why."

            I reflected that I had never seen Nalfein exercise his talent in the House before as I moved my King to safety, either, but then, I had not interacted very much with him before, but kept quiet about that.  "Does it take up a lot of energy for him?"

            "Apparently not," the mage said, finally moving his other castle to leave the way wide open.  I fought to keep my face mildly curious.  "I am not sure.  Your turn."

            "But you have seen him use it?" I moved a castle, unobtrusively, and he frowned a little.  "Back to you."

            "Yes.  Pity that, with the way your House politics are going, he has a fifty-fifty chance of surviving."

            "Reprise has no mage – she might keep him."  Actually, as matters went, Nalfein had nearly as high a chance of surviving everything as I did, in my opinion.

            "Ah, but your House already has a passable mage."

            "Checkmate."

            "_Vith."_

**

            The six months at Arach-Tinilith, were passable.  I had by then learnt from some of my classmates how to fall asleep with my eyes open, so most of the lectures went over my head. The Priestesses, convinced in the righteousness of whatever they were going on about, never cared to check if we lowly, stupid males were listening, so we just let them ramble on.  

            Nights in Arach-Tinilith were filled with incident, to put it delicately.  Priestesses, even High Priestesses, occasionally get lonely for male company, and if you happen to have good looks, a reputation, and not be from a House of too high a ranking (so as to cause complications if there a pregnancy results), your bed for the most part will not tend to be slept in.  It is wiser for a male, surrounded by Priestesses in a school which is one of the hearts of Lloth's power, to go along and just enjoy it.  

**

            The first part of Graduation involving the glabrezu was disgusting, and I am still to this day trying to forget the details.  However, I am told that if the student _does happen to survive it – and I do not really want to know how – if she is really 'favoured' by Lloth she will birth a draegloth, an even more disgusting half-drow, half-demon to be her personal assassin.  I do not want to know how this is anatomically possible, considering by all respects draegloths are large.  Personally, I had for a while in House Do'Urden vaguely pictured Briza as being a draegloth (she has the approximate mentality and, in my opinion, the look and build), except that Malice had not graduated as High Priestess as yet, so that should not have been a real possibility.  I hope. _

            I was greatly relieved to find that neither Malice nor Reprise happened to be anywhere, or there might have been several problems.  Spent the second part of Graduation with a High Priestess who had sought me out several times beforehand in the six month stay – at least she was one of the few who let me stay on top.

            I have as yet to meet a Dark Elf male who does not take some pleasure in the Graduation – after all, sexual interaction is an open aspect of Dark Elven society.  We were young, it was finally over, and if you managed to ignore the glabrezu and the rather pointless heat from the brazier, it was tolerable.  Most of the talk the night before had been about whether or not it would be better to try and bed a student or a High Priestess – though I had declined to contribute to the discussion. 

            At the end of it all, when we had cleaned up, graduated formally, and were leaving for our respective Houses, Sol'ranr grinned suddenly at myself, Raein't and Inofein just before we parted ways.  

            "I'm still the best player."

            I snorted.

**

            Two days of rest, before one had to leave for patrols.  I was dreading the thought, though I felt relieved that Malice and Reprise, still caught in their studies, would not be home.  Soelisk was waiting at the gate patiently, though, and he nodded to me when I approached.

            "How did you find the ten years in general?" he asked, as we went towards the House.

            I described to him the first six months in Sorcere as we levitated to the second floor, and he actually laughed, though now it was a hollow, slightly broken sound.  "I think I have forgotten how to play all of those games," he admitted.  "And Matron Daermone wants to see you."

            "How have you been?" I asked seriously.  The hollows beneath his cheekbones were growing more pronounced.

            "Fine," Soelisk whispered.  "Just fine." 

            The rest of the walk to the chapel was in silence.  Soelisk waved when the guards indicated that I should enter, and left.

            Matron Daermone, with the inevitable tome, was tapping her fingers on the desk.  She regarded me with mild curiosity.

            "You summoned me, _malla Ilharess_?"

            "You have done well, Zaknafein," Matron Daermone said.  "There have been good reports from your Masters, and you have graduated with honours.  Congratulations."

            "It was an honour to serve the House, _malla Ilharess_," I said, and blinked at the sudden, if transient, return of that expression of frustration and sorrow that I had seen on her face in the first Festival.  Then I realized that instead of saying 'you', I had used 'the House', and she could not fail to see that my conviction in my resolve was declining. 

            "Quite so," Matron Daermone said, and the metaphorical temperature in the room distinctly dropped a few degrees.  "You leave for patrols in two days?"

            "Yes, _malla Ilharess_."

            "You are to assist Soelisk in his duties for the two days, and prepare yourself mentally for the patrols.  Be very careful, Zaknafein – for 'accidents' frequently happen during the patrols, and I will not be pleased if you were to die." Matron Daermone said.  Her fingers were still tapping the table, and the sound was beginning to get on my nerves, because she slid the tip of each nail a little along the smooth surface before tapping again, causing a screeching noise.  "I might even expend the effort to resurrect what is left of you, and keep you in the dungeons.  Do you understand?"

            "Yes, _malla Ilharess_."

            "I take it that you will be in the point position.  Do not attack everything you see – report quietly to your group before going in.  I have been in patrols before, when I was still Priestess, and points have a low life expectancy compared to the others."

            "Yes, _malla Ilharess_." I was beginning to tune her out as she rambled on about the dangers in patrols, then a phrase jerked me out of my reverie.    
            "After you return from patrols, I may have to reconsider you for the rank of weapon master." 

            I blinked.  "But Soelisk…"

            "Is obviously inferior in skill to you," Matron Daermone said curtly.  

            My mind raced.  Patrols, however, took up five years of time or so for fighters, where they were mixed around with others of varying seniority, after which they may be slated for a post as a Master.  If so, would-be Masters had to continue in patrols for a length of time until a post was open, so as to 'prove their leadership qualities', though I was always of the opinion that it was just a requirement that could kill off, or drive away, a lot of aspiring applicants.  "If I am accepted to Melee-Magthere as a Master…"

            "Then of course Soelisk will remain as a weapon master, if I see fit.  It is likely that you would benefit your House more as a weapon master than as a Master at Melee-Magthere, however."

            "Yes, _malla Ilharess_," I said, managing to keep the relief from showing in my face.  It was not too difficult to become a Master at Melee-Magthere – there were occasionally slots open, as many Masters were needed to properly train the students.  I did not want to think about the child and the hook horrors.

**

            I found the first period of time I spent in patrols among the most enjoyable in my life, if not the most so.  As each team only has one or two priestesses, far away from the might of Menzoberranzan, the priestesses are less inclined to be annoying to the males.  After all, 'accidents' do happen.  Mages are also fine, because each patrol is mainly made up of fighters.  For the most part of each day, a normal patrol does not meet that many monsters, as most monsters know that to come within a certain range of Menzoberranzan is to die.  

            Sentient creatures, oddly enough, are more stupid.  Duergar and deep gnomes are often lured by the promise of lodes of precious metal or stones, and when coming into the unauthorized zones, risk the near-certain danger of death.  

            Patrols were dangerous, admittedly.  I feel now that one of the main reasons why all who go through the Academy are required to spend a stint in a patrol is so as to enforce the idea that survival outside Menzoberranzan is all but impossible.  After all, verbal warnings are nothing compared to the real existence.  If you understand that all that is keeping you alive in the darkness is the strength of your team, you will understand more fully how it is impossible for an individual to stay alive.  The Underdark is a cage.

            I found that I liked fighting monsters.  I liked to kill, then, for I did not fully understand death, which gives life its value.  I liked the smell of blood, sweat, metal and the ancient, almost unnoticeable expression in a victim that is the promise of death.  Then, I found my peace in fighting – however paradoxical that idea is.  The satisfaction of a kill is nothing compared to the Dance itself, as you take the life of another creature with your blades – the feeling of power is intoxicating and corruptible, like most power.  My team mates saw this fierce, primal drive in me, and perhaps that was why they were mainly silent around me when we were on the move.  Being at point meant that, for the most part, I did not see them, in any case – all I had to do was signal and scout.  

Nights were different – as I had suspected, someone brought _Seo'ur cards that got more and more battered as time passed.  To my disappointment – at least at the beginning – Sol'ranr, Inofein and Raein't were all assigned to other patrols, but at least this team had passable players, even if I do not recall their names._

            Bae'lan was in the second patrol I was transferred to.  Each time I looked at him I saw the child's eyes, but hatred is a useless emotion that has a tendency to foul up rational judgement, so I tried my best to let it slide.  It was not fully his fault – what else could he have done? Taking her back to the Academy would have been suspect, and I tried to tell myself that at least he had not decided to leave her in the Underdark, where her chance of survival would have been much slimmer.

            I still hated him, though.  It did not show – or so I hoped – but it could not go away.  

            It was under this second patrol, however, that I saw the Surface again.  I was a little excited, though I had to be careful that nothing in my speech betrayed the fact that I had visited the Surface before.  It was to be against some Surface Elf noble of some rank, and his small retinue – a difficult task.  Only the best of each patrol was chosen, and Matron Daermone was rather happily gloating away once she discovered that I was one of them.  She was in such a good mood that the obligatory threats as to what would happen if I failed the House were a little distracted.  

            The Surface was as beautiful as it was when I had last seen it, though I was one of the few who did not involuntarily glance up at the night sky – I was used to its emptiness, its speckled, vast majesty.  

            Bae'lan noticed that, and signalled, "The sky above does not astonish you?"

            I had to think quickly.  "I believed that we were here for a mission, not sight-seeing.  Sir."

            Bae'lan stiffened in displeasure at my insolence, but kept silent.  We were waiting in ambush, and the surfacer party, according to the mages, was approaching.  I busied myself quietly by wondering how intelligence had come to Menzoberranzan that such a party was to pass this area on such a night, considering I understood that sleeping in the night was a surfacer habit, and decided to swallow my hostility and ask Bae'lan later.  It could prove useful.

            A signal from the left – the party was approaching.

            The passing of the Surfacer Elves was careful and dignified.  The noble was the only one mounted, on a slender white elf-horse, dressed in flowing, embroidered cloth and light plate armour.  His retinue of elves, on foot, wore an assortment of weapons, especially bows, and each held a strange lamp in hand that did not smell of smoke or tallow.  The dim light lent them an unearthly beauty, illuminating the golden hues of their skin and hair.  

            Another signal, more surreptitious this time, and we charged.  The Surfacer Elves started in surprise, shouting at each other, but recovered admirably, forming a circle around the noble.  I headed straight for the first fighter, and realized he was good – he managed to parry most of my thrusts and avoid falling for the feints, but the shock of the ambush had not worn off.  A vicious slice to his wrist, and as he dropped a sword with an oath, a precise thrust through an eye put an end to him.  

            One of his companions tried to say something, and then realized that our mages had just put a globe of silence on the area.  His mouth opened in surprise, and then he gurgled as I dodged his badly-executed sequence and stabbed him through it.  Kicking him off my blade, one of their spears glanced off my armour, skittering on the adamantite, but as he tried to recover I was there, teeth bared in a wolfish snarl, the stink of blood and fear in the air as I cut his throat.  The lack of sound in the area was unnerving the surfacers, but by what I could see in my peripheral vision, the team was doing well.

            Surfacers just do not seem able to hold up against the savagery of a Dark Elf.  A problem with their attacks, as far as I could tell, was the fairly stupid, inbuilt instinct in them that told them to try not to kill.  For the most part, especially surfacer elves, if they did not absolutely need to kill you, they would not.  Dark Elves, however, would quite gladly kill you if they could.  We fight to kill – most surfacer elves fight to defend. 

            I was at the noble now, and had to raise my swords to block his first swing, and then had to dodge to avoid the flying hooves of his steed.  Distracted, and trying to keep his balance as the horse reared and tried to kick me, I managed to run behind him and yank hard on his stupid, long cloak, sending him tumbling onto the ground.  Barely dodging another kick that could have killed me, I decided that the horse was a definite problem, and sliced open its throat and belly.  Its eyes rolling, and the mouth open in a silent scream, it staggered, then collapsed, still kicking impotently at the air.

            The noble stared at his horse in shock, but recovered in time to block a stab, his expression now that of incoherent fury.  Good – angry creatures generally made poor opponents.  Absently, I parried a blow from one of his companions, who had been trying to flank me, but the noble shook his head at his friend, and the friend nodded as if in sympathy, then engaged one of my team mates.  Very stupid move – he wanted to fight me by himself? Perhaps the animal had been a friend.

            His attacks were wild at first, and easy to block, but got calmer and more precise as the rage began to wear off.  I got gashes on my arms and a shallow one on my neck where I had not been quick enough to avoid injury – his swords were quick and sure.  

We seemed to fight for an age – blade against blade, kicking, dodging, parrying, and I saw I was tiring him.  Patrols and the Academy had honed my stamina and speed, and once I understood the pattern of his attacks, they were not too difficult to block.  A break in his defence – I slashed downwards, and cut the veins in his hand.  A sword dropped, useless, and as he backed off, glancing down at his injury, it took a moment to force his other sword down, and put my free blade through his throat.

            The noble's mouth opened in shock, and he actually managed to stagger back a little, still upright, when I pushed him off callously, and there was a terrible moment as I saw his face and understood all that I had forced him to lose – all that his existence entailed to him and, no doubt, to those around him – all his loves and desires, all the capability for emotion and his enjoyment in his time on this mortal world – all that made him alive… then the light in his eyes flickered off, and he died.  

            Frozen by this sudden epiphany, I contemplated, involuntarily, all the other lives that I had taken, and the knowledge was overwhelming in its pain and enormity.  

            If you would kill – never, _never_ look in your victim's eyes.

            As the noble fell, his companions seemed to lose heart, and the few who were left tried to break for me, but my team was luckily in the way, and managed to clean them up.  The silence globe was dispelled, and the team was beginning to organize themselves for the return trip, but I still stared at the corpse of the noble, his clothes drenched in blood, and tried without success to make my mind a soothing blank…

            "Well done," Bae'lan said then, moving into my line of vision, and in an instant he linked this circumstance, unconsciously, with that of the child, and I would have killed him if he were in range.  As it was, I had to get a hold of myself, wipe the swords, and sheathe them.  Ignoring him, I went over to the dead noble and, pretending to try and remove the silver, delicately wrought band from his head for a keepsake, closed his eyes, to give him some dignity in death.

            "Do not take anything!" Bae'lan said immediately, as I knew he would.  "Some of those things are warded."  

"I thank you for your warning, Sir," I said formally, if a little coolly.

            Bae'lan ignored me, turning his attention instead to the body count.   

**

            At the end of my fifth year, I was told formally on one of the leave days – just before I returned to the House - by one of the more forgettable – and now dead – Masters that I was to consider going through further patrols in training to be a Master.  

            Matron Daermone seemed a little uncertain on this when I entered the chapel and told her.  

            "Did he give any indication as to whether your place in the Academy is certain?" was the first thing she said.

            "No, _malla_ _Ilharess, though he did say that my performance in Melee-Magthere and in the patrols was outstanding enough to…"_

            "Feh, that is what they say to all possible Masters, I believe," Matron Daermone said, though she seemed pleased.  "But it is good that you have been told this."

            "I await your judgement, _malla Ilharess_," I said formally.

            Matron Daermone smiled, though there was no humour or warmth in that expression.  "Go, with the blessing of the Spider Queen."

**

            The advanced patrols, to my disappointment, were not all that different from normal ones, except that potential Masters had more free time to train in the Academy and sit in for Masters' meetings.  Advanced patrols also spent somewhat more time deeper in the Underdark, or occasionally at the Surface.  The knowledge from the noble's death eventually ceased to haunt my waking hours, and I dealt with it by devoutly trying to forget everything.  Killing had lost a lot of its violent joy, and the thought of my previous dependence on it for pleasure simply made me feel unclean.  I felt as if something had been forcibly and painfully removed from my life, and I could only react to it with an anger that I had no way to express or release.  

            Anger, if channelled, does make a difference in a fight, and I slowly, carefully, learnt how to use my store of the anger accumulated from frustrations and hatreds into a vicious single-mindedness in my Dance that lent it speed and precision.  

            I still killed, but now, not because I liked it, but because it was necessary.  Kill or be killed – the truth of that maxim had been impressed upon me countless times throughout all the patrols.  I felt myself becoming empty, and often wondered if this was how Soelisk was enduring.  More and more, I could understand why he did not care if he died.

**

            I lost count of all the Festivals that had passed, and have forgotten today how long I spent in advanced patrols.  One of them I remember, which began when I arrived at the House and realized Soelisk was not waiting for me at the gate.

            Rather worried, I went straight for the Weapons Hall and ascertained he was not there either, nor was there any sign that he had been there in the morning.  

            _Now I was really worried._

            Turning towards the door, I saw with a start that Malice was there.  Against all reason, she was even more beautiful than before.  Something about her seemed to have matured, and her bearing was even more regal than I did remember.  Her step was confident, yet feminine, and she ran a delicate hand vaguely through her silver mane in a gesture that would have seemed whorishly artful in a lesser female.  When I accidentally looked into her eyes, I understood what it felt like to drown.  

            "Greetings, Zaknafein Do'Urden," Malice said politely, her voice all velvet and steel. 

            "Greetings, _malla Yathrin_," I bowed, feeling panicky.  She leant on the doorframe, which meant I had no means of dignified escape, and at the moment, my mind was too arrested by the scent of her perfume and the expressiveness of her eyes to think of a suitable method.

            "I congratulate you on your good performance in the patrols," she said, after a pause, as if she was trying to think of something to fill in the silence.

            "I thank you, _malla Yathrin_," I said humbly.  It was not too difficult an attitude, strangely enough, to affect in her presence.  "May I ask a question?"

            "Ask."

            "Would you know where Soelisk is, _malla Yathrin_?"

            "Soelisk?" Malice tapped her chin, thinking.  "I believe I last saw him entering Saole's room, a few hours ago."

            That would explain it.  "I thank you, _malla Yathrin," I said then, wishing that I did not sound so servile._

            Malice pursed her lips, and then seemed to come to a decision.  "You are aware of the current positions of my sister and I, in the House."  It was not a question, but a statement.

            "Er…"

            "I know you are." Steel now, less velvet.  "And…" Velvet again, as she plucked at the hem of her robe uncertainly, "…I would that you stay out of it."

            I frowned.  I had expected her to ask me to aid her.  Had she asked me, unfortunately, it was quite likely that I would have agreed.

            "_Malla Yathrin?"_

            "I know Reprise is trying to acquire your assistance," Malice said, still pulling at the hem.  "I personally do not… that is to say; it would be a waste if it turned out that I had to kill you."

            "Would you want my… assistance, _malla Yathrin_?" I asked awkwardly, still not really understanding what was happening.  All I had heard from others was that both sisters would be trying to get me on their side, and this did not seem very real.  Was there some hidden message there?

            "I do not _want _your 'assistance'," Malice said, her face now determined, as if she had just reached familiar ground.  All steel now, unbreakable in its resolve and conviction.  "I _will become Matron, but by my own will, without the help of anyone, without needing to rely on any other strength but that of my own.  I do not ever wish to need anyone, or anything, to preserve myself or my own, or ever need to ask for anything from another.  And I believe I __can do it."  She stopped abruptly, her mouth opening slightly, eyes darting away as if she had said more than she had intended to, and, with a slight flush on her cheeks, she fled as quickly as dignity would allow. _

            I think I fell in love with her then.


	15. Intersection

Intersection

            "Um…" S'kaerik began, uncertain of what to do, when the silence stretched longer.

            "Jarlaxle tells me that you are a professor in a Surface University?"  With relief, she realized he spoke Common – though not as perfectly as Jarlaxle, and his voice held the strange rasp of someone not accustomed to speaking, and the measured pace of a person with all the time in the world.  

            "Of paranormal natural history, yes," S'kaerik said, relieved that they were talking about her job.  That was easier.

            "And what are you doing in the Underdark?"  She was finding it difficult to maintain eye contact – the intense, ancient stare was extremely unsettling, so she focussed mainly on a point below the arch of his nose.  

            "Studying natural history in its element, and helping the Company direct the restoration of Old Cities."

            "I have never seen one of your kind before."  Nalfein seemed to jump from topic to topic as if his mind was considering several planes of thought all at the same time, and therefore, was carrying out several lines of conversation simultaneously.  S'kaerik hoped this was not the case.  The idea that she was talking to someone who could consider many ideas in depth at the same time was intimidating.

            "Well, both yourself and Jarlaxle have lived longer than my civilisation," S'kaerik smiled hesitatingly.  "And this is the first time we have entered the Underdark."

            "My last visit to the Surface was before The Summoning," Nalfein nodded.  "Baldur's Gate had no University then."

            "No, the Universities are a relatively recent trend," S'kaerik agreed, wondering where the conversation was going.  "Now every city believes it fashionable to have one, though Faerun's top Universities are those of Baldur's Gate, Candlekeep and Waterdeep."

            "Universities are ranked?"

            "Oh yes, based on several things, like the subjects offered, the quality of teaching, the libraries, the aptitude of the students and such."

            "Are all your cities connected by 'rail'?" Nalfein pronounced the last word as though it was still a strange and mysterious concept, like one of those massive flying machines that S'kaerik had seen humans try and design.

            "Um, the main ones are, as well as by maintained roads.  Rail travel is efficient and fast."

            "It is all mechanical?"   
            "No magic is involved, if that's what you mean.  The engineers are worried that another time of no magic like what the books say may occur, and then there would be widespread problems and dangers to people."  S'kaerik was struggling to keep up with the dialogue, and it did not help that the entire business was beginning to sound like an interrogation, which was upsetting, because not only was it rather rude, but she had also not done anything to deserve this – she was here on a favour, after all, not for his amusement.  It was not as though she had absolutely nothing better to do other than talk to extremely old Dark Elves, even if said Dark Elves had massive libraries.

            "I am sorry," Nalfein said suddenly, glancing down for a moment as if in embarrassment.  "I am not used to the company of others, and it would appear that I have forgotten how to converse appropriately with another."

            For a sudden, horrible moment, S'kaerik thought that she had said all her grievances out loud, and opened her mouth to apologize in turn, but was cut off when Nalfein added, "I have some ability at psionic magic."

            "Were you reading my mind?" S'kaerik said, unsuccessfully trying to keep the abrupt burst of irritation at the violation from her voice.

            "Not as such," Nalfein replied mildly, "But I can 'hear' loud, surface thoughts of emotions if I do not put up my barriers.  Since generally I have no company, I have no barriers.  But if it offends you…" he narrowed his eyes for a moment, "It is done."

            S'kaerik was now rather deservedly extremely confused and mortified at the same time.  "Um…"

            "If my questions are too… numerous so as to be improper, please feel free to inform me."  There it was again – the edge of subtle manipulation that S'kaerik always noticed helplessly whenever talking to Jarlaxle.  With that sentence, he had effectively stopped further objections, if she did not want to feel discourteous.  Was this a general way in which Dark Elves interacted?  "And call me Nalfein," he added, a little conscientiously, as if he had just remembered this formality.

            "You can call me S'kaerik," S'kaerik said automatically.  "Er.  Actually there were two things I wanted to ask you… ask your aid in, that is."

            "You may ask," Nalfein pushed at the offending lock of hair again.  For some reason, the tips of S'kaerik's fingers itched to comb it back – that silky mane must feel magnificent… now where had that come from? Guiltily, she realized that he was waiting for her reply.

            "Firstly, I don't know if Jarlaxle told you this, but he gave me Zaknafein's – Zaknafein Do'Urden's – journal to translate, and I um, am having some problems with one of the sections.  It's all abbreviations and shorthand," she clarified, when Nalfein seemed surprised.

            "I had not known that he had a journal," Nalfein said thoughtfully. 

            "Well, Jarlaxle _says_ it's not his journal, but it reads like it," S'kaerik said, deciding to be truthful.  She rather thought that Nalfein would be more likely to help her if she mentioned Zaknafein's name.  "You're in it, if the evidence reads correctly."

            "Do you have this journal with you?"

            "It's in my rooms in Sshamath.  I need some accounts of your… old House politics before Malice became Matron, to try and string up the abbreviations."

            "But you are not sure that it is Zaknafein's journal?"

            "Well, if you could identify it that would be nice too," S'kaerik admitted.  "If you're willing to help me I can bring the journal to you next time… or give it to Jarlaxle to show you."

            "Why are you translating this journal?"

            "I feel that it will have a lot of historical interest and may promote further investment in the Underdark," S'kaerik grinned.  "Your brother Drizzt Do'Urden was very popular on the Surface."

            "How is he?" Nalfein smiled, as if at a private joke.

            "Dead," S'kaerik said.  "But he left behind a lot of his own journals."

            Nalfein nodded.  "I would like to read those."  
            "I can get them for you.  Maybe in a few weeks or so on the next train from the Surface," S'kaerik shifted, but fought the urge to curl up in the chair.  "Along with any books you might want."

            "I was interested in the Candlekeep library," Nalfein said, with the crisp promptness of someone who had been waiting for her to say something related to it, so he could introduce the topic in a linear line like normal conversations.  The uneasy feeling returned, a little amplified now that she knew Nalfein was trying to humour her wishes.  

            "Well, they _might_ notice if it goes missing," she said before she could stop herself.

            To her relief, Nalfein chuckled, showing that at least he had a sense of humour.  "That would not be necessary.  I meant that I had heard of the Candlekeep library from some of these books, and wanted to see some of its titles."

            "If you ever come to the Surface I might be able to take you into it," S'kaerik said cautiously.  "The Dean might fright at a… um…"  
            "Dark Elf?" Nalfein supplied with a smile.

            "Yeah," S'kaerik agreed.  _More _than fright, actually – he was an old, fat man, and she had a sudden, terrible vision of him suffering a heart attack. "But I might be able to arrange it, because professors of the Five – that is to say, the Universities of Baldur's Gate, Waterdeep, Candlekeep, Amn and Neverwinter – have an agreement that they can visit any of the libraries with guests and borrow stuff.  Though you'd probably have to agree to um, let us look through your library as well."  

That would probably be the main point of debate – Nalfein's library might be able to convince professors to not only allow him, a Dark Elf, into the Surface libraries, but to also get them to come into the Underdark.

            "I may have to think about that further," Nalfein said, a little dismissively, once she spoke about his library.  Her heart sank a little.

            "We have great respect for books," she hastened to add, "And of course since all this is your property we would not think of borrowing without permission.  Do you have any particular titles that you are interested in from Candlekeep?"  Perhaps the lure of those books would be greater than his concern for his library.  

"Or I could arrange a copy of their catalogue – the listing of their titles, that is - to be sent to you – they compiled that years ago, and it keeps growing.  You can check off some of the books you want – if they're in print they may be available for purchase."  Printing, though still relatively new, was a growing business in the Surface, which was why the libraries of the Five had expanded meteorically in the last decade.

            "The catalogue would be greatly appreciated," Nalfein said, frowning a little, "But I may not agree to allow others to enter my library."

            "That's okay, I'd give you the listing anyway," S'kaerik said, her tail twitching irritably in frustration.  She had _really_ wanted to look at the books.  "Do you have a catalogue of the books in your library?"

            "No." Nalfein smiled, apparently amused at her immediate downcast expression.  Weyr-Cats were not that good at hiding their emotions.  "But if you could spare several years of your life, you could try and make a catalogue."

            S'kaerik perked up.  Did this mean…? "You would let me look at your books?"

            Now it was Nalfein's turn to be startled, though it only showed in the slight widening of his eyes and the quirk to his mouth.  "You would be willing to spend many years of your short life in this library?"

            "I like books," S'kaerik said, as a way of answering that, ignoring the phrase 'short life'.  "That was my second request actually, whether you'd let me read some of your books – at least, those on Underdark history.  I'd be willing to do it in front of you so as to… er, so you can see I am not mishandling them in any way."

            "History books?"

            "That is my course of study," S'kaerik reminded him.  The frown again.  "Of course, it's really up to you whether or not you want to give permission." That was a stupid thing to say, she realized, once it came out.  Obviously it was up to him – by all impressions, he was definitely powerful enough such that no one could give him orders.

            "Not the… spell books?"

            Ah.  Now she understood some of his apprehension – or thought she did, anyway. "Oh no, those are of um, no interest to scholars," S'kaerik said, enjoying his surprise.  "We're really more interested in books that detail histories, especially if they have to do with the Underdark – the ways of life, customs, important events, things like that.  If they are primary source materials – which is to say, first person accounts – that would also be very valuable."

            Nalfein was looking at her as if she was some new sort of creature which might sprout wings at any moment.

            "Books on science, medicine… geography, sociology, laws… um, art, economics, philosophy, mathematics, biology and such will also be of academic interest, if you have those," she added brightly, since he did not seem inclined to comment.  "Because they may have new ideas, and the insight provided to Underdark trends of thought could be the source of many theses.  Jarlaxle said you had books in Surfacer tongues?"

            "Only a fraction of my books are in Dark Elven," Nalfein said absently, as if he was considering something else at the moment, "Most are in Undercommon."

            "Well, if you were willing to have visitors, other than entrance to Surface libraries there might be monetary incentives."

            "I do not require money," Nalfein said comfortably.

            "Since quite a bit of my pay goes towards books, I'd guess that if I had your library I wouldn't need it either," S'kaerik glanced at the books outside.

            "Can you read Undercommon?" 

            "Not very well, but I can manage with a dictionary."

            Nalfein seemed to reach a decision.  S'kaerik watched in horrified fascination as some books slid out of various piles in the room and arranged themselves neatly at her feet, then she cringed as a magelight formed over her head.  "Those are in Surface tongues," he said, returning to his writing.  "While you wait for the mercenary you might want to look through them."

            "Can I borrow them out? I read like a tortoise, so I won't even be able to finish reading the first one, let alone analysing it," S'kaerik picked up one of the dusty tomes, and carefully opened a page, balancing the book on her lap such that the spine would not be affected.  The writing was spidery, but legible, and in Common.  "Or do you mind if I, um, come back? I might have to ask you a few things about the books, if you're willing to, er, suffer my presence."

            Nalfein smiled.  "Your presence is not that hard to bear.  You may return and read, if you wish.  I am not used to company, however, and _my_ presence may be the one difficult to tolerate."

            S'kaerik congratulated herself inwardly on acquiring the invitation.  "Oh no, you've been very polite and understanding," she said with a grin.  "It's more exhausting talking to Jarlaxle."

            "Try ignoring him," Nalfein suggested, watching as she turned a page.  

            "That option's not available to me," S'kaerik said wryly, "He's a shareholder in the company, not to mention he can probably outfight me with no weapons."

            "That might not be likely, Lady Cat," came a familiar voice from the room entrance.  S'kaerik looked up guiltily, just in time to see Jarlaxle enter the room and bow to Nalfein, then tip his hat to her.

            "Your business is concluded?" Nalfein asked Jarlaxle, a quick, mysterious look of annoyance forming – then fading – from his face.  

            Jarlaxle nodded.  He said something to Nalfein in the High Tongue, and then grinned when Nalfein grimaced at him and replied haughtily.  More incomprehensible exchanges, then Nalfein snorted and went back pointedly to his writing. 

            "Are you ready to leave, Lady Cat?"  S'kaerik blinked when he turned his attention to her.

            "Well," she said helplessly, looking at the books.  "What time is it?"

            Jarlaxle told her.

            "Um.  I'm really sorry about this, but can you come back in maybe four hours? If Nalfein's willing to let me stay that long… because I'd be free until then, after which I have to go for meetings."

            "Of course, Lady Cat," Jarlaxle grinned, and then said something to Nalfein, who ignored him.

            "I'm really sorry," S'kaerik repeated sheepishly.

            "There is no problem," Jarlaxle reassured her, with a wink at Nalfein that he did not acknowledge.  "Four hours, then."

**

            "That was not so bad, was it?" Jarlaxle asked, when they were back in Bregan D'aerthe and heading back to her quarters. 

            "For the most part it was absolutely frightening, actually," S'kaerik retorted.  "_Don't_ do that again."

            "Did I not hear you asking him whether you could return?"

            "I meant, don't drop me in potentially dangerous situations with scary people I don't know, again."

            "Ah, but how would you be able to make interesting acquaintances, otherwise?"

            "I'm not sure I want to meet your 'interesting acquaintances' anymore, Jarlaxle."  S'kaerik said dryly.  "The Gods know what they might be.  Deep dragons? Illithids? Some previously unknown race bent on mindless power?"

            "You do me much credit, Lady Cat," Jarlaxle said archly.  "If only my life was as interesting as you make it out to be.  And as I told you, you could charm Nalfein in any state."

            S'kaerik blushed.  "I don't think I _charmed him – more like irritated him with all my requests and questions about his books and my inability to keep up with him."_

            "Few people _can_ keep up with Nalfein," Jarlaxle told her, "He has an inability to converse normally.  It is a result of all his time spent inside his library.  And you were doing _very well." Jarlaxle considered informing S'kaerik that in actual fact, she had done __extremely well without actually knowing so.  Nalfein had been impressed enough to allow her to come back to his library, and generally Jarlaxle did not know of anyone other than himself who had been allowed to return.  The feeling that he was probably going to win this wager was sweet._

            "I hope so," S'kaerik was saying, with some resignation.  "I'd better pray that I don't offend him.  The academic world would be very interested in his library."

            "You seem to do everything for this 'academic world' of yours," Jarlaxle said mildly. 

            "Well, knowledge for future generations is important…"

            "Have you never actually done anything for yourself, Lady Cat?" 

            S'kaerik's ears twitched, and Jarlaxle decided to back off gracefully such that she could still answer the question, but would not be offended.  "My apologies, Lady Cat.  That was an insolent question."

            "Apology accepted," S'kaerik said, a little distantly.  "You know, I've never thought of it that way before."

            "I have met some of your… surfacer university colleagues, and I am afraid to say that most of them do what they do for their own ends.  Power.  Prestige."  That he could understand, but S'kaerik's motivations were rather beyond him, though he would never admit that in front of her.  

            "Well, anything to get to the same end, I guess," S'kaerik said carefully, as if she did not want to malign any of her colleagues unnecessarily.  "And I'm probably not that saintly to begin with.  Part of why I'm doing this is for money."

            "But to buy more knowledge," Jarlaxle pointed out, "Knowledge that is not involved in power, like spells, and then apparently mainly for the distribution of said knowledge among others."

            "Do you check out everyone you interact with to this extent?" S'kaerik said, with mock suspicion.

            "Actually, it is apparently common knowledge among your colleagues that the enchanting, young female cat professor of Baldur's Gate spends all her money on books that are then on indefinite loan to the University library," Jarlaxle grinned wickedly when S'kaerik blushed again. 

            "Since I don't read all of them at every moment, they might as well help other people than sit in my rooms gathering dust," she said, then glared at him when he laughed.  "What?"

            "Nothing, Lady Cat," Jarlaxle said innocently, or as innocently as he could, at any rate.  "Will you be in time for your meeting?"

            "Well, since Sshamath has the luxury of piped heated water, I probably will be," S'kaerik said thoughtfully, "Though I'd spend it fighting to stay awake, as usual.  What they mainly want to do at the moment is compile a Company map of Sshamath complete with annotations, and then discuss trade specifications with the appropriate authorities.  Since they're still in process of getting permission for us to see things of 'historical interest' – whatever those are – I'd probably be free for a while after that.  Sshamath isn't an abandoned city like Menzoberranzan, after all.  It's almost like a holiday.  And since Nalfein gave me permission to tell them of his library, I might as well bring that up as a topic."

            "Yes, that would be of interest," Jarlaxle said, considering if he could influence events such that S'kaerik would end up being assigned with Nalfein's library, and therefore have to spend more time in it.  He was not sure if he had to prod Nalfein into allowing that – he was quite certain that he did not need to, but if necessity arose, S'kaerik represented enough things that Nalfein wanted – such as a link to Surface libraries – such that if he was careful, he should be able to influence the old mage subtly without the mage noticing.

            Jarlaxle was enjoying himself immensely.

**

            S'kaerik watched Nalfein carefully as he read the journal, slender fingers occasionally turning a page.  She was actually supposed to be reading one of the books, but she wanted to know Nalfein's opinion of the journal.  Besides, he was not difficult to look at, since he possessed a Dark Elf's uncommon good looks.  Jarlaxle said that on some points Nalfein resembled his mother, and S'kaerik could now picture, at least in part, the beauty that Malice must have been.  

            Finally, he finished, and then turned back to some previous page as if to confirm something.  "I would agree that there is a high probability that this was Zaknafein's journal," he said, looking at another page.  "A very high probability."

            "But no certainty?" S'kaerik said, with a little disappointment.

            "You could confirm it by talking to his spirit," Nalfein suggested, "Ask a skilled cleric for help.  One good enough such that his summoning would be untainted by his belief and personality, such that you would get accurate answers."

            S'kaerik nodded.  She had some cleric friends in Baldur's Gate, though she wasn't sure if they would be willing to do this for her.  And a confirmation via summoning smacked of magic, which the academic world might not trust.  "But you can help me with the… rather incomplete part?"

            "I will help you," Nalfein agreed, "Though 'incomplete' would be a good term with which to describe the book.  Some of the pages are missing."

            "How can you tell?" S'kaerik asked in surprise.  This was new.  She put the tome on the chair and walked over when Nalfein beckoned.  Leaning over his shoulder, she looked at the marks he pointed out as he turned the pages.  The marks were deepest at the last page. 

            "Someone removed pages from inside the book… and the pages after the last."

            The marks had looked old, about approximately as old as the writing, which was why S'kaerik had thought they were just mishandling by the owner, or later owners.  She leaned closer, frowning.  "I thought those were not recent."

            "They are not, but they are older than the journal," Nalfein said. "You might like to ask Jarlaxle for the other part of the journal, if it is with him.  However, if it was he who removed it on purpose, it is then obviously unlikely that he would aid you."

            "I was wondering why it ended so abruptly… I thought at that time that the author had grown bored with detailing his thoughts."

            "Perhaps it is not of interest," Nalfein said dismissively.  "Are a few pages all that important?"

            "Maybe," S'kaerik said, resolving to ask Jarlaxle later.  "Thanks," she added, turning to look at him, then realized in an instant how near her face was to his, and how much more handsome he was in profile and when close up, and she had to move before he saw her discomfiture.  

            Back in her chair and trying to avoid looking at him, she returned to her book and silently berated herself for being so easily distracted.  She did not notice that Nalfein was staring thoughtfully at her, cheek cushioned against his palm, his face unreadable.


	16. Part 8: Soelisk

Part 8

Soelisk

Translator's Note: Certain sexually-explicit scenes from this part have been omitted due to historical irrelevance and potentially offensive content.

            What I felt for Malice was like a fit of madness in its intensity and irrationality – surpassing even those feelings I once had for Naetalya.  I spent all my free time thinking of her, wondering what she was doing, how she was feeling, what she would look like if she smiled… it was probably a good thing that advanced patrols prevented me from staying in the House, or I could have disobeyed all commands and tried to kill Reprise myself.  The thought of losing her was unbearable – it seemed so momentous that my mind flinched from the very concept, and I was left feeling drained, frightened and insignificant. 

            Thankfully, at point position one is not allowed time to dwell on such thoughts – a point scout must stay alert at all times, or endanger himself and his patrol.  But I noticed that the emptiness that had been inside me was seeping away, and I silently thanked her for it.  

            I was both relieved and disappointed when in all the Festivals after her outburst she avoided me scrupulously – relieved that I would not betray my feelings, and disappointed that I could not be close to her.  I knew she was looking at me, though – I had become so aware to her presence that I seemed to notice every single detail of her actions – how she touched her hair or robe when she was nervous with the tips of her fingers, how she ducked her head and pulled at her fringe to frame her eyes when she talked to one of authority… as I said, it was like madness.

            Because of my 'valour' in the previous Surface mission, I was chosen again for the next one, which involved attacking an outpost.  This one was just against one of their patrols, and was less difficult, though if any of my team mates noticed, I was studiously averting my eyes from that of the slain.  The words '_Kill or be killed' recited themselves desperately in my head, like a mantra, when I cut down – slaughtered - the surfacers.  _

            It was easier to think that given the chance, I would be the one to fall by their blades, if you ignored the fact that we were the ones to attack them first.  Surface raids seemed rather pointless, actually.  They never really attacked us, being mortally afraid of the Underdark – and raids were timed such that only when they began to let down their guard did we strike – hard – at another area.  We never, however, attacked the humans, oddly enough.  Perhaps it was because we were, like the surfacers, afraid of their intense, short lives, where they had the will to change so much in so brief a span.  If they united, the Dark Elven Cities would definitely fall – with their numbers, and ingenuity, who knew what they could accomplish?

            Humans are occasionally seen in Menzoberranzan, though not very often, and mainly in the form of traders.  They were treated with contempt, but were not killed unless they broke a law.  Traders from the surface were welcome, as they were often rich and laden with precious goods to trade.

            I did not understand their garbled, unwieldy tongue, and kept my distance.  Save for duergar, I had never really viewed other races with anything more than an idle curiosity.  The world of the Dark Elves was my world, and I could not imagine leaving its established dangers and intrigues to brave the outside unknown, even though I listened occasionally to some of the male team mates consider this vaguely, as they sometimes spoke in quiet voices during breaks of the pointless, unceasing insignificance of their existence in Menzoberranzan.  None of us, however, truly, deep in our hearts, would have considered leaving.  It was too much of a risk.

**

            Years passed in patrols, and both Malice and Reprise completed their trainings as High Priestesses.  Festivals now seemed rather strained, as both sisters kept glaring at each other, but at least Malice was still avoiding me.  Reprise, thankfully, would have nothing to do with a male, and generally kept away.

            Soelisk, from the drawn look on his face each time I saw him, was obviously being pressed harder by Saole, but he never discussed anything about her or about House politics to me.  From what I could gather, Malice was quietly building up loyalty from the soldiers somehow – bribes, perhaps, but my mind refused to consider what myriad forms such 'bribes' would take – but Reprise and Saole were not.  They did, however, have Soelisk, and the soldiers did follow him somewhat. 

            Nalfein, too, graduated, and was now in patrols, and theoretically at this momentous development, the sisters' scheming would soon come to a head.  I never did think much about the House – I tried not to. 

**

            Both sisters have been accepted into Arach-Tinilith as Mistresses.  My offered congratulations to Malice in the Festival after that had seemed very nervous and stuttered.  She seemed distracted by something, however, her eyes glancing everywhere except my face when I spoke to her, and did not appear to notice.  But somehow I could tell she was pleased that I had congratulated her before her elder sister.  For some reason, that was extremely satisfying.

            Matron Daermone stopped speaking to me except when necessary.  There was no sorrow or frustration in her now, just a strange, empty resignation that was somehow even more disturbing.  It was almost as though she had seen her death and found it near, and had given up all hope.  

**

            "Your House has changed Matron," the Master in my patrol said casually.

            I gaped at him in comical astonishment.  "What?"

            He pointed at the communications disc, which was already dissipating, its function spent.  "The reports in that disc spoke of a change in Matron for your House.  It did not say to which."

            "But…" I frowned.  Matron Daermone had been in perfect health when I last saw her. 

            "You may have leave to look to your House when we return to Menzoberranzan after this circuit."

            "Yes, sir," I bowed, and went back to point, mind racing.  A change in Matron… I was not afraid of my continued position in the House – a few cycles ago, it had been confirmed that I would be a Master after three months, just in time for instructions before the next intake.  One of the Masters had died in a patrol, and I was to take his place.

Rather, I was dreading returning to find Malice dead, or worse… 

            I nearly got myself killed in that circuit, just thinking of possible consequences, until the Master noticed my distraction and changed my position to guarding the mage.  I did not get a dressing-down for it – understandably, a change in Matron was a suitably large enough event to require much speculation.

**

            The scenery between the Academy and the House rushed by in a vague blur as I sprinted back to the House after the circuit.  I reached the Gate out of breath, tired, and slightly unbalanced, as I had been trying to prepare myself for the worst, and, as usual in such endeavours, had just managed to upset myself further.  

            Malice would be dead, or Soelisk would be dead… that absolute expectation played in my mind.  Malice, or Soelisk… 

            The Weapons Hall was empty.  The soldiers cleaning the weapons inside looked up, startled, when I clattered in, still out of breath.  "Where…" I began, and then let out a deep, heartfelt sigh of grief and relief when I saw Soelisk emerge from his room.  He blinked when he saw me, and then smiled hesitantly. 

            "Zaknafein! Did you run from patrols?"

            "I…" I leant against the doorframe, gasping ignominiously.  Do not sprint long distances in full armour.  "The Master… let me off… at the news."

            "The communications disc reached you, then," Soelisk said, stating the obvious.  He seemed older, somehow, and I was trying to figure out what it was when I heard a very familiar voice behind me.

            "Greetings, Zaknafein," Malice said.

            I whirled, blinking, and looked her up and down, in my astonishment and confusion forgetting that she might take offence from that insolence.  "Wha… Malice… why…"

            "You may now address me as '_malla Ilharess_'." Malice corrected me primly, with an enchanting half-smile, and I had to fight the urge to kiss her.  

            I went down on one knee before her respectfully, bowing my head.  "Yes, _malla Ilharess_."  It seemed, at that moment, the most natural thing to do.

            "See me in my chambers.  _After_ you bathe." A rustling swirl of robes and retreating steps, and I stood up, looking after her until she was gone.  

            "What happened?" I asked Soelisk, when he dismissed the soldiers.  "And why are you still…"

            "Alive?" he supplied.

            "Yeah."

            "Daermone's, and Reprise's, hearts stopped beating three days ago," Soelisk said flatly, with no inflection in his voice as to his opinion of this.  "In their sleep.  Saole, however, had been missing for a while, so she is presumed dead."  His expression did not change as his fingers made out one word quickly before falling to his side – 'scrying'. 

            Ahh.  Malice, or one of her minions, could be spying on this conversation.  

            "Why are you alive?" I repeated curiously, if bluntly.  "I had thought…"

            "Because if you become Master at Melee-Magthere, there would be no weapon master available until you get settled in and they let you take it part-time," Soelisk smiled.  It was a painfully bitter expression.  

            "Then after that?"

            "I die, I believe," Soelisk said matter-of-factly, as if he were discussing the shades of Narbondel.  It was a terrible thing, listening to someone who no longer wanted to live.  "You had better be going."

**

            "Much better," Malice said when I entered 'her' chambers.  "You stank."

            I had been wondering why she had picked her chambers instead of the Chapel, but had eventually reined my mind away from speculation, in case I began to presume.  Assumption on the part of those who would deal with priestesses is a deep and often lethal mistake.  

            "Please accept my apologies, _malla Ilharess_," I said, trying not to grin.  There was something about her fastidious indignation that was highly amusing.  Laughing was however something that my brain restrained and labelled, in this context, as a 'suicidal tendency'. 

            "You _still_ smell of oil and metal," Malice said irritably.  "Why must you wear armour all the time?"

            "The smell may distract the enemy, _malla Ilharess_," I replied, and carefully maintained a straight face.  Malice shot me a look as if to try and gauge whether or not that had been a joke, then gave up and sat down gracefully on a recliner.  I tried not to look around.  These were the Matron's personal chambers, and I had last seen them only under the rule of Daermone.  Nothing was changed, symbolic in a sense – the House remained, but Matrons were changed like movable, easily worn-out furniture.

            "You wonder why I called you here." Malice was always in the habit of stating things instead of asking questions, possibly feedback from her mental intrusions.

            "Yes, _malla Ilharess_."

            "I wished to know if you were still loyal to the House."

            "I am yours to command, _malla Ilharess_," I said, and for appearance's sake and because I knew females liked this sort of thing (strangely enough) I dropped to one knee, armour clinking.  The move came more easily and less ungracefully each time, apparently. 

            "I suppose that is an answer of sorts," Malice mused thoughtfully.  "Stand up, Zaknafein."

            I rose, warily, and attempted to keep my eyes averted from hers.  This wasn't difficult at this angle, because the cut of her robe allowed for an excellent view.

            She watched me quietly, and the silence seemed to extend for ages.  I dared not say anything, and she did not seem inclined to break it.  I considered the idea that she was reading my mind, and was mildly curious as to whether or not she knew the extent of the madness.

            Knowing Malice, it was quite likely that she did. 

            Finally, when she spoke, her words seemed to catch in the still air, framed like a precious tapestry.  "You are at my command?" 

            Malice's voice in a purr of pure velvet was a weapon in itself.  I shivered involuntarily, and hoped immediately that she did not notice.  "Yes, _malla Ilharess_," I murmured.

            "Take off your armour and disarm yourself."

            When I was clad only in my undershirt and pants, she stood up and approached, delicately skirting the pile of armour, swords and knives, then just as delicately unbuttoned my shirt and pulled it off, dropping it into a heap on the ground.  Critically, almost clinically, she examined with nimble fingers the scars I had collected over the years – the inevitable mark of a soldier, and I had to bite my lip to keep from making a sound, afraid that such an action would make her stop.  

            Then she kissed me, and I surrendered my heart.

**

            "I would like to ask a favour of you, _malla Ilharess_," I said indistinctly, a little muffled by her hair.  I loved its complex, alluring scent.   

            "What?" Malice's voice seemed sleepy, but satisfied after all the exertion.  Definitely a good time to ask.

            "May Soelisk's life be spared, even were I free to assume the role of weapon master? I can convince him to… disappear in Menzoberranzan.  You will never see him again, or hear from him.  If he uses his knowledge against the House, you can be assured that I will personally kill him slowly before you.  There is not that much to gain from killing him now."

            There was a pause, and then Malice shifted in the circle of my arms such that she could see my face.  Her eyes met mine for a moment before I could look away, and as far as I could tell, she was merely amused.  "Why this concern for his skin, Zaknafein?"

            "Soelisk has been a… good friend to me, _malla Ilharess_."

            "A friend, Zaknafein?"

            "It is hard to explain," I admitted.

"Do you not belong to me, Zaknafein?"

            "All I am and all I could be or do are yours, _malla Ilharess_." I said honestly.

            "Then what can you give me to convince me that Soelisk is worthy of my pardon?"

            "I can make _this_ much more… enjoyable for you, _malla Ilharess_." I whispered, and rubbed the tips of my fingers over a sensitive spot. 

            She hissed in pleasure.  "But if I were to… order you to do it, instead of trading favours?"

            "It would not be as whole-hearted an endeavour, _malla Ilharess,_" I smiled, and caressed another area.   

            Malice chuckled.  "Did you learn this in the Academy, Zaknafein?"

            "No, but I learnt much about the pleasures of females that I could demonstrate to you, given enough incentive,_ malla Ilharess_."

            "Would the bite of my whip be enough?" she said, a little playfully.  Somewhere on her dressing table, the snake-whip made slithering sounds in response to its mention.

            "I would not be in much of a condition after that to adequately… perform."

            Mentally, I breathed a sigh of relief when Malice smiled and said, "Very well, I agree.  Now show me."

**

            "You're free to go, once I return as weapon master," I told Soelisk.  "I managed to… convince the Matron."  We were in the bazaar, taking advantage, apparently, of the rest of my leave, and more importantly, of the noise and the crowds, to hide ourselves from eavesdroppers, magical or otherwise.  Our clothes we had searched thoroughly before leaving, in case of little magical spiders.

            "I would not ask you how you accomplished that," Soelisk said dryly.  "But I thank you."

            "Would you… take the chance to live, Soelisk?" 

            "Oh yes… since she is still alive."

            "I rather suspected that to be so," I said mildly.  "Though I do not understand why you would do this for her."

            "Because I feel for her as deeply as you feel for Malice, Zaknafein," Soelisk said, and his head was turned, so I could not see his expression.  "Would you do all I have done for Saole, if you were in my place and Malice was in hers?"

            I smiled ruefully.  "Yes."

            "There you have it.  We are a pair of foolish males, no doubt."

            "Do you know where… she is now?"

            "Yes, but I cannot tell you, though I can admit that I was the one who gave her the information to escape and the way and the place to disappear.  I am sorry.  I have learnt how to conceal my thoughts from 'readers, after several embarrassing moments in Malice's youth when she was going around reading everyone who was open.  You have not, nor, I suspect, can you bring yourself to in the Matron's presence."

            "I did not want to know where she was," I said.  "Will you need anything? I mean, when you have to go? I cannot see you again, after you leave, or risk endangering all of us."

            "No, I will not need more of your help.  You have done enough already.  Do not worry, I will take you up on this chance." Soelisk grinned wanly at me.  "For her, foolish as I am, I am willing to live."


	17. Intersection

Intersection

            As was normal, S'kaerik could not find Jarlaxle anywhere once she really wanted to find him, and polite enquiries directed to the guards at the entrance of the Bregan D'aerthe branch only produced even more polite assurances that they had no idea where their leader was. Two weeks of now-habitual meandering between Nalfein's library, Company Headquarters, and her room had shown no sign of him either, and it had been most unlike Jarlaxle of late to not 'drop in' on her every few days or so just to irritate her.  This was an extremely unwelcome state of affairs, considering she had really wanted to ask Jarlaxle whether he had known why the journal was incomplete.

            Nalfein hadn't known where the mercenary was either, and had in fact gifted her with a very old, vague look of bemusement, as if wondering why she was in such a hurry to look for Jarlaxle.  _After all, the look seemed to say, __he would turn up eventually in time.  Wryly, S'kaerik wondered if Jarlaxle __would turn up, ever, or something, at least in her lifetime.  It was all very well for someone who was essentially immortal to use the phrase 'in time', but __she had a limited span of life.  At first she was worried, and then irritated at herself for being worried – she couldn't think of much that could __hurt Jarlaxle, let alone kill him – then irritated at herself for being irritated, then irritated at the mercenary for making her irritated at herself, and now it was just mildly confusing._

            She probably needed more sleep – what with paperwork generated from dealings with Sshamath, residual issues from Menzoberranzan, Nalfein's books, and negotiations with the Surface University libraries about Nalfein, she had been sleeping less than she normally did.  At least the parts of the journal that were with her were done, accelerated with Nalfein's help…

            S'kaerik yawned, curled up in the chair in Nalfein's reading room, wishing that he had not offered a few days ago to pad it with more cushions.  As it was, the words were fading out of focus…

            Nalfein watched mildly as S'kaerik fell asleep, the book sliding over her lap, and he philosophically picked it up with his mind and put it in the pile on the floor.  With some afterthought, he moved the cat slightly such that her head was more comfortably propped against the cushions, then returned to his writing.  There was some problem in the composition of the Mental Immunity spell from a grimoire he had purchased, through Bregan D'aerthe, from a Surfacer, but he was quite sure now, after five decades, that he was nearing the root of the problem. 

            Perhaps the intonation of the twenty-third syllable had to be raised a pitch… 

            Carefully, he compared the spell to a near-parallel in another grimoire, pen dancing methodically over parchment.  Nalfein liked the feel and sound of parchment, and therefore had refused to use its more modern equivalent – paper – even in ordinary note-taking.  Machinery was fast-becoming a staple in the mage-city, and he would never have believed it when he first set foot in the area.  As it was, Bregan D'aerthe was still supplying him with parchment, so he did not need to find specialists.  Perhaps he _should consider finding a way to get indoor piped heated water, and he certainly would need to fit in electric lights, but other than that, to Nalfein, machinery and technology were something that happened to other people.  Parchment was still cheap in Sshamath, anyway – spells could only be transcribed onto a special type of parchment…_

            Mind considering several different levels of thought all at once, the old mage still noticed Jarlaxle's entrance into his personal plane, and considered waking S'kaerik up.  Then again, it might be better to see what his old 'friend' wanted first.

            Eventually, the mercenary wandered his way through the pertinent part of the Library.  His first action was to glance at S'kaerik, as if to make sure she was asleep, and then grin irrepressibly at Nalfein.  Nalfein sighed inwardly.  Relative to the number of years both of them had lived, Jarlaxle was not _that_ much younger than he was, but the mercenary always seemed to contain the mischievous, wiry energy that Nalfein would, in other cases, associated with youth.

            "What?" Nalfein asked irritably, though softly, so as not to disturb S'kaerik.  He had just managed to grasp something of the spell when Jarlaxle had entered.  As it was, he now had to restrain his thoughts to try and realign himself to normal conversation.  Jarlaxle got very twitchy whenever Nalfein forgot and just spoke as he liked.  Then, strange, inconvenient things would start happening to supplies that the mage received from Bregan D'aerthe, and it did not require anyone of Nalfein's intellect to be able to link cause and effect.

            "Greetings, Nalfein," Jarlaxle bowed.

            Nalfein sighed.  "Tell me what you want, and then go away.  I am amidst some fairly important experimentation."

            "I was wondering if you were going to give her the rest of the journal."

            "When you gave those pages into my keeping, you said to do with them as I saw fit."

            "You did not answer the question."

            "That is because I have not decided," Nalfein shrugged.  "Those pages may deal with important issues of Bregan D'aerthe, but they also concern my flight to Sshamath.  Were they to become public knowledge, my current position could become compromised."

            Jarlaxle nodded.  "But you mentioned the lack of pages to her."

            Nalfein grimaced.  "I cannot imagine why," he admitted.  "There was a sudden impulse I could not restrain.  It is hard to explain – as though one wanted to prove something to her."

            "Ah? That is very interesting," Jarlaxle said thoughtfully.

            Nalfein glanced at the sleeping Weyr-cat, and did not notice his mouth crook up into a slight smile as she muttered something in her dreams and twitched her ears forward, fingers curling gently at the edge of one of the cushions, grey fur smoky in the magelight.  There was something comforting about her presence, and he occasionally considered if this was the feline part of her – perhaps there was some reason why cats were so popular with mages… or perhaps it was something else that stayed on the edge of his thoughts like a niggling problem and would not go away.

            Jarlaxle coughed politely, and Nalfein turned his stare back onto the mercenary, with some annoyance.  "Yes?"

            "There was another thing of importance of which I believed may interest you," Jarlaxle said, watching him intently, "S'kaerik may be sent back to the Surface in a few months, to give reports to the Universities."

            Nalfein blinked.  "A few months?" For some reason, a bubble of disappointment mingled with unease and something that ached but could not be identified welled up in his chest.  "This is not confirmed?"

            "No, but it is a high possibility."

            "Does she know about it?"

            "That is unlikely."

            "Then how did you…"

            "I have a share in the Company, and enough ears," Jarlaxle smiled.  "Much of the news comes to me before it reaches employees like her."

            "But… when would she come back?"

            "A month, a year, ten, who can tell?" The mercenary shrugged with such insouciance that Nalfein, somewhat irrationally, felt like doing something destructive to that face, possibly involving acid spells, but since this was a normal impulse whenever he had dealings with Jarlaxle, he suppressed it easily.  "But she has been interesting, has she not?"

            Nalfein could identify the tip of the small storm of emotions that had burst out, and it was 'jealousy'.  That unnerved him enough for him to agree and say, distractedly, "More than interesting."

            His eyes wandered over to S'kaerik again, as if to reassure his mind that she was still, at the moment, present, and therefore he did not notice the brief, self-satisfied smile that wreathed Jarlaxle's face.

**

            "I have to leave?" S'kaerik blinked.  The red dwarf, whatever his name was – she had major difficulties with their names - who had brought the letter seemed surprised.

            "Leave? Leave 'ere?" He considered this, and then a happy thought occurred to him.  "Well, miss… them Dark Elven cities ain't too healthy.  Ye could come to us dwarven ones instead! There'd be _beer_, an' lots of meat, not like this terrible thin expensive alcohol, the red thing…"

            "Wine," S'kaerik supplied absently.

            "Yeh, wine, an' all this _gods-damned_ mushrooms wot smother the bits of meat." The dwarf sighed, entrenched in the culinary delights of reminiscence.  "Even them duergar cities are the same."

            "The letter specified I have to leave _for_ the Surface," S'kaerik elaborated, giving the letter to the dwarf.  He read it slowly, eyes beetling under his bushy brow, one fat finger moving slowly over the words, and lingering over the signature.  S'kaerik was impressed.  He hadn't needed help with any of the words.  Non-cleric and scholar dwarves generally didn't bother much with reading and writing, except that of their own tongue.

            "What fer?" He said at last, handing the letter back to her with care.  "Ye're still needed 'ere, us at Menzo still need yer help."

            S'kaerik had a feeling she knew why.  The Company, despite its dwarven part, was rather afraid of her spending hours alone in a pocket plane under the control of a powerful Mage Lord.  Not that she told them his real name, of course.  If anything did happen to her, they would have had to explain it to the Universities – she was currently one of seven official representatives in the Underdark – the Weyr-Cats, the dwarves… Not to mention a death or injury due to a Dark Elf would put a damper on trade and travel considerations by surfacers.

            "I can try to appeal," she said doubtfully.  She didn't think so.  The letter had intimated that the Universities were backing the Company fully in this matter.  Return to the Surface… but for how long? The rest of her mortal life?

            Admittedly, she did miss the sky and the feel of the wind, and the smell of fresh air flavoured by trees, but she knew with certainty that she would also miss the restrained, peripheral magic hidden in the walls of the Underdark, the allure of the darkness and its hidden treasures, and her friends.  Besides, Nalfein's library was important! Perhaps she could argue on… that…

            "I'd talk to the other dwarves," the dwarf said helpfully, sensing her distress.  "Even if ye get sent back Up, ye'd be back soon enough.  We, er, really 'preciate everythin' ye've done for us."

            S'kaerik reflected dryly, as she watched the dwarf exit her room, that a modern dwarf's lifespan was also somewhat longer than hers, such that 'soon enough' was not as comforting as he had meant it to be.

**

            Nalfein took the news quietly, returning to his writing immediately after reading the letter.  Somewhat injured at this apparent indifference, S'kaerik retrieved the latest letter, that detailed her departure date and train, from his table herself.

            When standing closer to him, however, her sharp eyes picked up a few promising signs – Nalfein was writing harder than usual, almost angrily, his breathing was too regular, as if he was controlling it with an effort, and his lip was slightly indented, as if he was biting it.  Well, better that there were some signs of a reaction rather than nothing – she just hoped it wasn't sheer relief or something equally negative.  A small part of S'kaerik wanted to know why Nalfein reacting to the news made her happier, but the larger part didn't care. 

            Back in her chair, she decided that, after a few pages into a book on the convoluted politics of the Mage City, the silence in the room was getting stifling.  "Well, I can get you updated catalogues," she said, attempting cheerfulness, "And maybe bring back some books."

            The quill paused, and then started moving again.  When S'kaerik resigned herself to the silence, the Mage muttered, "That would be kind of you."

            "It'd be a small repayment for allowing the perusal of your library," S'kaerik said, now feeling that the cheer in her voice was becoming brittle and breakable, like thin glass, and hoped the old mage would not notice.

            "You did not cause any inconvenience," Nalfein said, a definite tone of dismissal in his voice, intimating that he did not want further discussion.  

            "I'd miss you," S'kaerik ventured tentatively.

            Nalfein raised his head, the errant lock of hair drifting over an eye, his expression unreadable as he seemed to appraise her, then he returned to his writing without a word.  

            S'kaerik sighed mentally, and returned to politics.  As far as she could tell, generally it went in cycles – a Mage Lord would find a surprisingly inventive way to kill a rival, then allies intervened, before or after, then more allies – except on the opposite side – would move on, then both sides (or more) would be cheerfully trying to slaughter each other.  Maybe all that magic did funny things to their heads.  It was somewhat similar, if not on such a scale, with the magic-based organisations on the Surface itself.

            That was an interesting, if dangerous parallel.  Having power, or the anticipation of having it, made the same changes to races, elf, human, dwarf… sometimes it made things better, but quite a few times, wars happened, and bloodshed.  The Humans and dwarves, in particular, had fought amongst themselves in war after war, and still never seemed to tire of it – shedding blood for what they said was morally right.  And yet to label the Dark Elves as evil, because they recreated the chaos of war within each of their cities, unlike turning whole cities against each other.  It was all very curious, but a very, _very dangerous line of inquiry._

            Eventually she got up to leave – she had become somewhat more familiar with the Library now, and did not require Jarlaxle's help to exit the area – not that he'd show up – and carefully put the book on the pile.  Her 'Goodbye' to Nalfein did not seem to have registered, so she headed for the door, hurt again, not knowing why she even felt this upset at his apathy.

            "S'kaerik?"

            She realized with a start that this was the first time he'd ever said her name, at least in front of her.  Slowly, she turned.  "Yes?"

            Nalfein was rubbing the space between his eyebrows slowly, as if trying to relax.  "I…" He shook his head, as if weighing something against another, and then deflated slightly, apparently giving up.  "The books.  Take whatever you wish with you."

            "Nalfein…"

            "Return them whenever you like," Nalfein said softly, tilting his head such that his mane of hair hid his countenance.  

            "Thank you," S'kaerik stuttered.  "Um.  When would be convenient?"

            "Whenever you wish," Nalfein said, and continued writing, a little stiffly, as if with effort.  "If you require help you could…"

            He stopped when S'kaerik, albeit with some wariness, encircled his neck loosely with her arms from behind and pushed her face into his hair.  As she had suspected, it felt, and smelled, magnificent…

"Thank you," she repeated, in a murmur.

            Nalfein turned slowly to look at her, so close that it seemed so natural that he would tilt his head up, _like that_, and she would move even closer, _like that_, and their lips would meet… like that…

            "I hope I am not interrupting anything?" Jarlaxle asked from the doorway, urbanely.

            S'kaerik pulled away from the kiss in embarrassment, flushing, and then she removed her arms from their positions as the mercenary glanced at them in apparent clinical curiosity.  "Jarlaxle!" 

            "Greetings, Lady Cat," the mercenary said, tipping his hat, "And to you, Nalfein."

            "Where _have_ you been?" S'kaerik demanded, trying to squelch the strange anger that rose like a tide inside her, which seemed to have no cause – none that her mind really wanted to admit, anyway - then her fingers flew up to cover her mouth.  "Sorry.  I was just very worried that something had happened.  To you.  Um."

            "I was just about to wish you a safe trip, Lady Cat, if my business prevents me from visiting you after this date," Jarlaxle said mildly, "I apologize for my absences – I have been very busy of late."

            "Um.  Right.  Sorry…" S'kaerik took a few steps away from Nalfein, as if afraid something else would happen – she could feel his seething irritation.  "Er.  I have to go.  Could you help me carry some of the volumes out, on the day I have to leave? If you have time? The um, top four from the pile, I'd take the rest myself.  Nalfein very kindly agreed to lend them to me."

            Nalfein glanced at the pile, and it disappeared.  "I have put them in your rooms," he said flatly.  

            "Um. Thanks."

            "We will not be keeping you then," Jarlaxle said, stepping into the doorway and bowing again.  

            With a helpless, backward glance at Nalfein, S'kaerik left the room with as much injured dignity as possible.  

            Jarlaxle waited until she was safely out of earshot, and then grinned at Nalfein, who had controlled his emotions carefully.  The old mage's expression was now quite coldly polite.  "What do you want, Jarlaxle?"

            "Knowledge," the mercenary said with his usual melodramatic flair.

            "Ask and leave."

            "Firstly… why did you send the books to her now?"

            "I need a few days to think," Nalfein growled.  He touched his lips with his knuckles, absently.  "Are you done yet, mercenary?"

            "Other than to tell you that you have lost your wager, yes."

            The mage glared at him.  

            "Well?" Jarlaxle prompted, raising an eyebrow.

            Nalfein sighed, admitting defeat.  "The other doors in this plane are open.  Take a look if you wish.  Do not steal anything."

            "Your lack of trust in me is most deplorable," Jarlaxle said archly, objective accomplished.  The main part of his scheming with Nalfein had been completed, though he considered extending it now for his amusement, without either involved parties being aware of it.  After all, that was the best and most entertaining kind of machination.

            With a spring in his step, Jarlaxle bowed to Nalfein, then left to explore the rest of the plane.


	18. Part 9: Jarlaxle

Part 9

Jarlaxle

Translator's Note: After correlation by Nalfein, Jarlaxle now seems inclined to admit that the journal _was written by Zaknafein Do'Urden.  Upon questioning regarding the 'third way' mentioned, he was quick to admit that being a mercenary was an old occupation for males, but he had wanted to sound dramatic. _

            Being a new Master at Melee-Magthere was, as would be expected, far more interesting than it was to be a student.  One was considered too inept to do administrative tasks, lecture, teach techniques, or lead patrols, so what one generally did was to lead exercises, something considered relatively foolproof.  As mass exercises generally only occurred a few times a day, I had a considerable amount of free time, a large proportion of it taken up by having to 'shadow' a Master of a certain task, such as teaching.  However, it still left me with a lot of time, during which I was allowed to sneak back to the House and see Matron Malice.

            Malice always seemed glad of my presence, especially when she had company.  After all, it looked good to have the honours student of Melee-Magthere, and a Master at that, hovering protectively over her shoulder, despite everything she had to say about the 'fragrance' of armour.  

            As the years passed, I managed to be happy – I was young, in love, and the Academy was not so bad a thing to do – all I had to do was not to look at the poor in the Braeryn, the street-children with the haunting, hopeless eyes, or at Soelisk himself in an unguarded moment.  Self-denial is powerful, and I knew what I was doing was stupid and delusional, but I was _happy_.  I did not want the feelings of contentment and satisfaction to stop.  I did not want a despair as deep as Soelisk's, so I tried to believe that everything was right, that Malice would not use me like Saole had used Soelisk, and I actually managed to convince myself. 

            It was easier to forget about those matters whenever I was with Malice, or working in the Academy.  It was on those long stretches home where I averted my eyes from the pain, the injustice, the cruelty and the poverty of the streets, the dying, hopeless children, and ran, ran until I was breathless at the House gate.  Malice was always delighted, despite her overt complaints about the smell of sweat – she believed that the reason why I ran was so as to be able to spend more time with her.  That was only partly true.

            Once one advances in seniority – say, after some decades – then one is allowed to assist in teaching, help supervise the grand Melees at the end of each year, and fight the new students on their entry evaluation.  It was on one of these evaluations that I first met Jarlaxle.

**

            "Your name?" It was my fourth fight, and I was growing terser and terser.  I was not on very good terms with the priestess on duty, and so she was relatively lax in allowing me the refreshing spells.  I had far too much pride to ask her nicely for them, so I had to resort to making do with the meagre effort she spent on me.  

            "Jarlaxle, sir." 

            No House name attached? This could be interesting… I studied him carefully.  A male of average height and average build, sharp eyes with just a hint of mischief under a wild mop of white hair, well-chosen chainmail, a few light throwing knives in his belt, and two short swords.  He was in a good stance, and not nervous at all, strangely enough – his grip was steady, and his gaze was firm.  

            "Weapons chosen?"

            "Knives and short swords, sir," Jarlaxle said, bowing slightly, so I attacked immediately and swiftly.  If he had no sense enough as to take his eyes off a hostile target, I intended to make his first lesson as hard as possible.

            To my surprise, Jarlaxle dodged easily, as if he had expected me coming, and then blocked the upward slash that would have cut up his leg.  He moved lightly and neatly, as precisely as a dancer, parrying and dodging, all the while his mouth set in a small grin, as if everything was highly entertaining.  Somewhat irritated at this, I set into my offensive routine immediately, bypassing the defensive that I had been planning to take so as to be able to gauge his abilities.  

            It did not take too long for me to know that I was better than him – he was practiced, but his teachers had not been as good as mine, and his technique was a little shaky and flamboyant.  I took advantage of this by playing a little, slicing shallow cuts on his arms and legs until there was a hot crimson film of blood in the infrared – while blocking a slice, I ran my blade swiftly along his and gashed his arm, allowing a wolfish smile at his sharp intake of breath, and then stabbed at his head.  He avoided that barely – the whistling blade sheared off a few strands of his hair.  With a muttered curse, he leapt back, parrying a vicious lunge, metal singing off metal in an inanimate chorus, and managed to kick me hard enough to make me stumble.  

            I let him close in, and then swung upwards, but the sword skittered off his hastily raised bracer on his arm, recovering to stab up again, but was blocked neatly.  

            The bastard was still grinning, blood and all.

            With a growl, I sliced heavily at his feet, knowing he'd jump gracefully to avoid it, and then used the other blade to stab – he couldn't change course in the air to dodge… but he parried with both blades, landing him a little unsteadily a few feet away.  Another quick lunge, using the first blade to feint and raise his swords too high – then slip down and aid with the other blade's slice, edge with edge into a cross, using all my strength. The blow hit him on the ribs and actually pushed him a little into the air, to slam down on the ground a few feet away.  It wouldn't kill him – the chainmail was there – but it would have cracked something, or at least stunned him.

            Had dented the chainmail – gashed it actually, quite severely – but adamantite make was very strong, at least in the Underdark, and it had not given.  Jarlaxle was gamely trying to get up – he had already dropped one of his swords in pain, and was clutching his side with his free hand, blood tracing external veins of red.  

            "Do you yield, Jarlaxle?" I asked, panting.  The force of the blow had numbed my right arm, and I mentally added this as something Not to Try Again in other circumstances.  

            His answer was a quick fusillade of knives, and I cursed my arm and my weariness as I parried those I could see that would hit.  His aim seemed to have been thrown by his injury, as some of the knives went wide, and I heard the sharp sounds as they struck the near wall to my left…

            Two meaty thuds, and to my horror, I felt pain flare in my shoulder and leg.  A step back, and my leg collapsed under me, sending me to my knees.  The impact on the ground _hurt_.  How…?

             Ricochet.  The knives I thought had missed must have ricocheted off the walls and found their target.  I stared at Jarlaxle with new respect – he could calculate the trajectory that well? He seemed nearly as surprised as I was, actually – and the grin had gone, but momentarily, and returned quickly. 

            "Do _you_ yield, Zaknafein?" he replied politely, somehow managing to stagger to his feet and point his remaining sword at me.  I could not back off – trying to get up would no doubt cause an even more ignominious fall, and so, considering my options and realizing they were not very open, I nodded.  

            This was my first true defeat in a real battle, and the sensation was bitter in my mouth. 

**

            There were, thankfully, no snide comments about my defeat from either the students or the Masters, and the priestess had actually been so gratified at it that she'd healed my wounds fully and gave me a proper refresh.  Jarlaxle had watched me carefully throughout the healing, but said nothing.  In my irritation, I was somewhat unfairly harsher on the other students that I encountered after him.

            When I grumbled to Matron Malice about this later, she actually laughed.  "Is _that_ why you are sulking?"

            "I am _not_ sulking, _malla Ilharess," I muttered.  I sat at her feet while she read a tome on a chair in the House Library.  We carried out most of our conversations that way – it was safer to avoid too much speculation, which would have been generated had I spent most of my time in her company on the same physical level.  I liked talking to Malice – her mind was sharp and incisive, and so long as one avoided anything to do with religion, she could be quite perceptive and even witty.    _

            "Of course you are, Zaknafein," Malice smiled, stroking my hair lightly.  "I was going to make you tell me once I saw you storming into the House, but it slipped my mind."

            "Jarlaxle was only a student," I complained.  I had really thought that I was the better warrior, especially at the beginning of the fight.  To try and belatedly cover my own mortification at the defeat, I added, "I feel as though I have betrayed your trust in my ability, _malla Ilharess_."

            "He was only one person, and other than that, you have a perfect record in serious battles, as far as I know," Malice pointed out, "And Masters can be defeated.  You yourself were not too long ago a student, a student who managed to defeat a Master in the evaluations, Zaknafein.  Besides, it could well have been due to good fortune on his part."

            "Unless he was really able to know the precise angle with which to strike the wall, _malla Ilharess," I said.  That had been an even more difficult concept to accept._

            "So good a warrior should have been noticed before the Academy," Malice said thoughtfully, "And I have not even heard of this Jarlaxle.  You say he has no House?"

            "No, but he is on scholarship from Baenre, _malla Ilharess_," That had pushed the odds a little in favour to the second concept.  House Baenre only offered commoner scholarships if said commoner displayed remarkable ability. 

            "Baenre!" Malice exclaimed sharply, frowning, fingers freezing for a moment, entwined in my hair.  "Ah… perhaps he was kept a secret, then.  Zaknafein, keep an eye on this Jarlaxle.  It might prove useful knowledge."

            "May I ask why, _malla Ilharess_?" I asked, puzzled.  "Baenre would not consider us a threat, would they?"

            "No, but it would still be useful," Malice turned a page in her book, her other hand reaching down to rub my cheek gently.  "Would you be teaching his class?"

            "I may be involved with his class, but I doubt it, _malla Ilharess.  I am already involved with the fourth-years." I pushed my thoughts back to the defeat again, and added thoughtfully, "He did look surprised when the knives hit me, as if he had not expected them to."_

            "Or the surprise might have been that you fell for it," Malice said, then smiled rather wickedly when I looked up indignantly at her.  "Only teasing, Zaknafein."

            "I bow to your shrewd and discerning judgement, _malla Ilharess," I said dryly._

            "Shut up and kiss me."

**

            A few months passed before I had a stretch of free time that coincided with the 'personal exercise' sessions of Jarlaxle's class – where the Masters left them unsupervised to allow them to train on their own.  I had not wanted to use it to speak with Jarlaxle, but an order from Malice was an order.  

            "Greetings, sir," Jarlaxle said politely when I found him doing double sword routines in a quiet section of the training area for first-years.  

            "Greetings, Jarlaxle," I replied, sitting down on a bench near him.  "No, no, continue with what you were doing.  How have you found the Academy?"

            "It has been very interesting, sir," Jarlaxle grinned.  He managed to put a little undertone to each 'sir' such that the formality and implied respect of the term was surgically removed.  "I sincerely hope you were not offended by our first encounter?"

            "No, not at all," I said, lying between my teeth.  Well, not offended, exactly, just seriously irritated with myself.  "You are good with knives."

            "That was mere good fortune, sir," Jarlaxle said innocently, and for the life of me I could not tell if he was the one now telling untruths.  It is always difficult to tell, when speaking with Jarlaxle.  

            "Two coincidences?"

            "Luck favoured me greatly," Jarlaxle said playfully.  "I was worried that you had been angered, as you struck me as someone I would like to know better.  Sir."

            I belatedly realized that Jarlaxle was now leading the conversation, and a little too adeptly for my liking.  "The feeling is mutual, Jarlaxle, though in my case my Matron also ordered me to speak with you."

            "Why, what a coincidence!" Jarlaxle smiled.  "My Matron told me to do the same thing."

            "Why would Matron Baenre be interested in me?" I blinked.

            "Other than the fact that you graduated with the highest honours, ranked top at each grand Melee, and are now a fast-rising Master?"

            I chuckled.  "There is that."

            "But why would your Matron be interested in me?"

            "Because of your connection with Baenre."

            "Oh, I am just a lowly male that the Matron decided to grant a scholarship on," Jarlaxle said, but there was something bitter in his voice that made me study his face.  "Somewhat similar to your circumstances, I believe." The wooden short-sword poles that he held blurred in the air, against an unseen enemy.  "Sir."

            There was definitely something intriguing about him.

**

            Jarlaxle, to my surprise, came third in the grand Melee, even though I had been sure that none of the students of his year had been his match.  He had seemed to lose purposefully once he ascertained that there were only three of them left, but for the life of me I could not understand why he wished to do that.  Matron Malice summarily dismissed him from her considerations, and I was then obliged to return to the House every free block, as usual.  

            I managed to speak with him later, though – by carefully being vague about my schedule, I could find time to talk to him, something I rather enjoyed, even through his penchant for trying to irritate me and manipulate the conversation.  There was something different about Jarlaxle that I tried – and failed – repeatedly to grasp.  

            "Why did you lose?" I asked bluntly, once I got him alone.

            "I am not as good as you thought?" Jarlaxle suggested, the grin back in place.  "Ran out of luck, sir."

            "You could definitely have blocked that slice in your sleep.  I have watched your routines and mock battles with your classmates.  Your skill is not extremely exceptional, but it is better than that of your classmates."

            "Ah, but your Matron is now not interested in me, yes?"

            "That is true…" I frowned, as my ears caught up with his meaning.  "You lost because you wanted her to _lose interest?"_

            "Her and… other people," Jarlaxle said cheerfully, "The encounter I had with you generated a little too much interest in my welfare.  First position would have sealed that, second may have had a chance, but third is obscure enough to be forgotten, sir."

            "Why are you doing this? Would not your Matron be displeased?"

            "She sends scholarship-males here very often, and does not expect so much of them, sir."

            "But how can you rise in rank as a commoner unless you display your ability?"

            Jarlaxle shrugged.  "If I told you why, would you tell your Matron, sir?"

            "Naturally I am expected to relay any information to her, but…" 

            "But she is no longer interested in me, so if she does not ask, do you need to tell her?" There was no mistaking the mischief in this, and I had to smile.

            "That is true."

            "Very well, sir, since I am tired of keeping this to myself – I am the second son of Matron Baenre."

            This was a shock.  "What?" But there had been no surname attached to his, in the records – only the name of the sponsor…

            Jarlaxle held up a hand before I could cover him in questions.  "However, technically, I do not exist in that function, sir.  This circumstance is mainly due to my inconvenient older brother, the Archmage Gromph."

            "Why?"

            Jarlaxle sighed.  "One of the priestesses of Baenre has a gift at visions, and before my birth she foretold that I would rise to the greatest power a male would know in the Cities of the Dark Elves.  Needless to say, Gromph assumed immediately that this meant I would become an Archmage of unmatched power, and plotted murder.  Matron Baenre, being intelligent, could see this, and though she could forbid him to kill me, it was not unlikely, considering the power and intellect of my brother, that 'accidents' would happen and I die in my youth.  So to all respects I was stillborn and burned on the braziers as an offering before Gromph could examine me, and he believes that I am dead."

            "I was brought up secretly and trained as a fighter – training by mages would definitely have reached Gromph's ears eventually.  Matron Baenre is curious to see if the vision would be true, therefore she took the trouble to get good – but not outstanding – teachers, and enrol me into the Academy.  And that, sir, is my story, albeit somewhat summarised."

            "Fighters cannot be ranked greater than mages," I pointed out.  "So this vision does not seem to contain much potential truth."

            "Rank is but one of the ways in this world to measure power.  Admittedly, it is believed that there are two ways for males to gain noticeable power – to be an exceptional fighter, or a mighty mage." Jarlaxle smiled.  "I will make a third way."

            "Would it not be safer to remain submerged in mediocrity?"

            "The vision piqued my interest, so I will work towards its fulfilment.  After all, that is how I will be able to feel alive." Jarlaxle said solemnly, "To be mediocre and male is to pass each middling day in a kind of dormant death, for there is nothing one would be able to achieve, and when one dies, nothing will be remembered or changed.  Life – to live each of your days however you want it – is more important, because to have life is to have something more precious than fame or money or other material things that will have no meaning if you die, and I will achieve that – and an immortality of sorts, if I die – by being the vision's 'greatest power'.  Besides," he added, mischievous again, "If I turn out to be just like a common soldier, it is likely that Matron Baenre will have me put to death out of disappointment."


	19. Intersection

Intersection

            "The Baldur's Gate Press will put your translations into print after a few um, that is, a bit of editing." 

            S'kaerik smiled.  "Thanks, Paul." 

            Paul, an elderly, fumbling human professor who'd always reminded S'kaerik of a walrus that had inexplicably lost weight, pushed his glasses up his fat nose with a bony finger.  He was the editor and head of the Baldur's Gate Press, which was the section of the University of Baldur's Gate that printed selected books and essays for general use.  "Though the, um, the identity of the author is still a little um, in question."

            "The only way I can see to actually confirm it is to ask a cleric to perform a ritual," S'kaerik agreed.  "If that is allowed…?"

            "There is some, um, precedence, I think so yes – the translated Apocrypha of T'aleril of the High Elves, um, is a case in point.  Yes.  Ask, um, Professor Derin of Religious Mechanical Studies?"

            "I would most certainly do that," S'kaerik nodded.  Derin was a priest of Oghma, whom was relatively available to bribery regarding bits of new machinery from other parts of the world so as to clear time in his horrific schedule, and, more importantly, his word was respected in academic circles.  Oghma was one of the most powerful Gods now, strangely enough due to the onset of technology.  Not being of a very religious race, S'kaerik had no idea why, and did not really care.

            "Paul… about the catalogue I asked you about…?"

            "Oh, yes, the newest edition is out.  I have it, um, somewhere…" S'kaerik watched in amusement as Paul pushed up his glasses while trying to open his cupboard, nearly flicked them off his nose, then nearly caught his toe with the sliding mahogany drawer, then triumphantly removed a thick book from its dark recesses.  "Here we are."

            "Thanks again! Um, how much do I owe you?" S'kaerik leafed through the crisp pages.  Ah, at least they'd separated this edition according to Library – the previous ones had been a nightmare to cross-reference and find.  

            "You can keep it," Paul smiled, "Or rather, your um, friend can."

            "You know about Kar'aifein?" S'kaerik used Nalfein's assumed name.

            "Last we, um, heard, the Council was still considering his case, but I think they are, um, very interested to open negotiations."  Paul looked wistful for a moment.  "All those books… and you saw his library?"

            "Take my word for it," S'kaerik said solemnly, "It is the most number of books I have ever seen in one place, and I have been to Candlekeep Library."

            "That must truly be, um, awe-inspiring." Paul said, a little enviously.  "At least you, um, cats have more than twice our life spans."

            "But still not enough to read all of the books inside," S'kaerik rubbed one furry ear thoughtfully.  She rather missed Nalfein, even though it was only the first week back in the bright, sunshine-traced beauty of the Surface.  After he had put all those books in her room, she had been so tied up with matters regarding her departure and things she had to do for the Company that it was a relief the books were so close at hand to study, though she felt rather guilty for not visiting the old mage.  He had not even turned up at the station to wish her goodbye – at least Jarlaxle had done that, winking at her over the heads of the dwarves that were helping her carry her stuff.  

            He had, however, professed ignorance regarding the missing pages, and with nothing much else she could do, she had to believe him.  

            But still, it hurt, somehow, that Nalfein had not shown up.  On the trip back, S'kaerik had decided that she was a fool for thinking he would – after all, he probably tolerated her because, like Jarlaxle, he inexplicably found her amusing, and she was a link to the libraries of the Five and the books of the Surface.  Jarlaxle at least she considered a friend, but Nalfein, she was not really sure anymore.  

            The kiss… in the brief moment their lips had met he had tasted of spice and something she could not identify, but seemed like what she thought ancient magic might taste like, something dormant, slightly malignant, powerful, and forbidden.  She was definitely far too attracted to him for her own good – even though interspecies relationships was not much frowned upon in these days, anything with a Dark Elf would certainly generate comment.  Not that she would worry about that, but Nalfein himself might not be willing to have such interactions with a non-Drow, considering the attitude Dark Elves still had in general to other races.  The kiss probably did not mean anything to him anyway – besides, she was the one who had started it…

            "S'kaerik?" 

            "Er, yes?" She was jolted out of her reverie by Paul, who was gazing at her worriedly.  "Sorry, drifted off… I think I'm still tired.  Extended train rides do that to me."

            "I was saying, um, whether he'd also like a list of the books we have in print to take his pick of whatever titles he wanted, if he reciprocates with a, um, negotiable number of titles."

            "That might be difficult – the titles he picks from his library, that is," S'kaerik said thoughtfully, "They might not be of much academic value."

            "I was um, hoping you'd be free to go back and pick them for me," Paul said, then mistook her gasp for disbelief, and added reassuringly, "I have every faith, um, in your ability."

            "Oh, it wasn't that," S'kaerik said quickly, "I was just thinking that I had to go back so soon."

            "Well, um, if you weren't willing to I can't say I blame you," Paul said soothingly, mistaking the situation again.

            "I'm quite looking forward to being allowed to get back, actually," S'kaerik corrected gently, "Everything inside is marvellous, even disregarding the lack of sunlight."

            "Truly?"

            "I don't know, it may be different for us cats," S'kaerik said, "Humans – sorry, no offence intended – don't really like the darkness, since they don't have other types of vision."

            "That's true," Paul sighed, and looked around his office.  "And I don't think I can bring myself to leave this place for weeks on end.  But you really, um, like it there?"

            "I don't know," S'kaerik twitched her tail lazily from side to side, "I like it a lot, but maybe not enough to stay there for the rest of my life.  I miss the sunshine every time I'm in there, not to mention the Company makes us work twenty-six hour days in the absence of a sun-cycle."

            "Heh, but you earn, um, income from both the University _and the Company at the same time, that must be, um, good."_

            "Yes, it is… and thanks for finding those books for me," S'kaerik said.  Paul was the one who located books and paid for them with the money she put aside from her pay for this purpose – she knew he wouldn't cheat her, and besides, he liked to read her books himself.  "I'd probably bring them back with me."

            At least Nalfein would get a sample, even if he didn't agree to the access of his library.  S'kaerik realized guiltily that her thoughts nowadays always strayed back to the mage, and wondered if this was unhealthy.

**

            Derin was summarily bribed with pieces of Dark Elven technology and, more importantly, the permission to peruse the book on aspects of Drow machinery that S'kaerik had borrowed from Nalfein's library for this purpose.  

            After he had put it reverently down on his desk, S'kaerik asked, "When can you do it?" She held the journal in her hands hopefully.  Naetalya's claws were in a padded bag at her feet, in case Zaknafein's mind needed jogging. 

            "Now, actually," Derin said.  Although of Paul's age, the human cleric-Professor seemed to be all angles, with a sharp nose, thin fingers, and a lean, tall frame reminiscent of a slightly bent rectangle.  He was business-like, methodical, always spoke in a clipped, precise voice, and always seemed to be in a hurry, perhaps due to his lecture-packed schedule.  After all, the subject he taught was one of the most popular in the University.  "Follow me."

            S'kaerik, with some bemusement, followed Derin away from his paper-packed office, through corridors and rooms filled with harried-looking students and delicate machinery, and finally into an empty room with a shallow circular pool of water in its centre.  Rather arcane-looking markings had been traced around the pool in veins of metal in angular shapes, their ordered complexity irrationally reminding S'kaerik of Derin himself.  

            Without saying anything to her, Derin knelt at the pool and started chanting something to Oghma that S'kaerik tried not to follow out of superstition, his hands clasped together.  With scientific interest, S'kaerik watched as the pool began to glow with a misty grey light that slowly filled the room like viscous liquid, and then a sudden shaft of bright yellow light seemed to rush down from the ceiling and strike the pool with a sound like a chord played on a guitar…

            When the spots left her eyes, S'kaerik saw Derin back on his feet, arms folded, looking at a figure floating above the pool with some satisfaction.  

            A _very_ handsome Dark Elf – face calling to mind words like 'chiselled', 'elegant', 'stunning' and 'gorgeous', yet all of which failed to appropriately illustrate the reality, somewhat transparent, dressed in a dull, simple white robe and pants, somehow managing to make, with his posture, floating helplessly and insubstantially in the air with no weapons a dashing thing to do.  He immediately spoke in rapid-fire Dark Elven, and did not sound particularly friendly.  S'kaerik felt mildly relieved that all the vituperation seemed to be directed towards Derin.

            Derin, unruffled, said, "I'd try a translation spell," and spoke a few syllables.  There was another chord of sound, and then S'kaerik's ears suddenly realized that she could understand what the Dark Elf was saying.

            "…so what the _fuck_ do you think you're doing?" he snarled, and seemed set to start on another litany, except that now S'kaerik was quite sure she'd be able to hear the profanities, and was just equally sure that she would not be able to understand most of them, nor wish to.

            "Are you Zaknafein Do'Urden?" she asked quickly, stepping forward.

            He turned his sharp, accusing stare on her, and she nearly cringed back.  When he spoke again, his voice had knives in it.  "Yes, I am Zaknafein Do'Urden.  If, like a certain priest whose identity is luckily unknown to me, you require the use of my shade to delude…"

            "I um, actually wanted to ask you a question, then we'd let you go back.  Really.  And, um, sorry to interrupt your rest."

            Zaknafein's stare seemed to become a little less accusing at the sincerity behind her apology.  "Hurry up, then."

            "Is this yours? I mean, did you write it?" S'kaerik walked forward and held up the journal.  Zaknafein reached down, and his fingers passed through the book.  Sheepishly, S'kaerik opened it, and turned the pages slowly.  Derin, from the side, watched with vague interest.

            "How did you get this?" Zaknafein asked curiously.  

            "Jarlaxle gave it to me," S'kaerik said, reaching down for a moment to retrieve the claws from her bag.  "And these."

            Zaknafein blinked.  "Naetalya's claws!  But I did not have those in my possession, even while I lived…" He sighed.  "The nerve of that mercenary…"

            "Well, if you, um, want the claws, I guess they're really yours," S'kaerik said, feeling a pang at the thought of losing them.

            Zaknafein waved a hand through the weapons in emphasis.  "They would not go to the Realm with me," he said, and smiled wistfully.  "And what use would they avail me there? No, if Jarlaxle gave them to you, he must have had a good reason.  And I _did_ write that journal you hold, though it seems incomplete."

            "Nalfein said so too," S'kaerik nodded, and immediately wished the mage was here.  

            "Nalfein is still alive?" Zaknafein seemed amused.  "And _you_ know him? That is very interesting.  Send him my regards.  I wish to go now."

            "Um, thanks for everything.  I really appreciate your help.  And it's really been an honour to meet you."

            Zaknafein shrugged.  "Farewell," he said tersely, then stared pointedly at Derin.

            Derin bowed to him, and then performed another ritual that sent Zaknafein away.  

            "He did not seem very interested as to why I had the journal," S'kaerik mused, when everything was back to normal.

            "The dead from those Realms generally aren't very interested in anything happening in the Material Plane." Derin said reassuringly.

            "So it's true he went to a 'happy place' like what Drizzt's journals claimed?"

            "Yes, though I have always doubted the tone of the conversation that apparently took place between them.  I have always ascribed it to fond embellishment on the part of the son, but from the attitude of Zaknafein to priests, I find it is possibly due to mismanagement from the priest Cadderly.  

            "Thanks a lot, Derin," S'kaerik said.  She seemed to be saying that a lot today. 

            Derin chuckled.  "I was actually willing to do a lot more for that book, but you didn't know that."

            "I'd pretend I didn't hear that, either." S'kaerik grinned.

**

            "Greetings, Nalfein," Jarlaxle said, carefully making his tone cheerful enough to just verge on the point of being irritating, and then bowed before entering the reading room.  

            Nalfein barely looked up from his book.  "Why are you here?"

            "I wished merely to check in on you…"

            "If you have any questions, just ask and be gone," Nalfein said curtly, muttering as he ran his finger along a line in the book.  

            "I was wondering if you were well, since you did not see S'kaerik off at the station."  Jarlaxle said, adding some vague curiosity into his voice so as to make the old mage think he was only asking out of idle concern.

            "I am always… well," Nalfein said.  "And that is _none_ of your business."

            "Your state of health, or S'kaerik…"

            "Both." 

            "She asked where you were, actually." 

            Nalfein looked up sharply at Jarlaxle, who kept his face straight.  "She asked about me?"

            "Oh yes, I had to tell her you were busy."

            "What?"

            "I assumed that if you did not wish to see her off, you would not want her to try and find you to see if you were well.  And her train was leaving."

            Nalfein glared at Jarlaxle, but the mercenary's expression had not changed.  

            "Did I say something wrong?" Jarlaxle asked mildly.  The trick was to add a sufficient amount of mischievous curiosity into the question so as to make Nalfein think that his poking around was impromptu due to slips on Nalfein's part, and not another of his meticulously constructed schemes.  Acting was just a little part of the fun.  "Of course, if there was some misunderstanding, I could arrange to contact S'kaerik at her University."

            "No, no need," Nalfein said, frowning.  "Will she be returning?"

            "It has not been confirmed, but reports say the dwarves are for it.  Though it is likely that whether or not she can return for extended periods of time directly depends on your attitude towards the sanctity of your library."

            "They wish to trade visiting rights?" Nalfein raised an eyebrow.

            "I meant that if you did allow any surfacer to enter your library, they might dispense with her services in Sshamath altogether and return her to Menzoberranzan," Jarlaxle said, circumspectly prodding Nalfein's mind towards the correct decisions.  "Not that it would be inconvenient to her Company, since the Menzoberranzan dwarves are those who are the loudest in asking for her return."

            Nalfein sighed, as if one of his suspicions had been confirmed.  "I had thought of that."

            "The dwarves say she might return in a few months or so, depending on the trains and developments." Jarlaxle tipped his hat.  "I have to take my leave now."

            "Just go away," Nalfein said, too absently to put any real threat into his words.

            Rather satisfied, Jarlaxle did so with another elaborate bow, congratulating himself once he exited the pocket plane.  His eye patch and various magical devices that Nalfein was getting quite emotional, something that Jarlaxle had never seen happen on such a scale since he had known the mage, and that was highly gratifying.  Besides, the mercenary had observed Nalfein scrupulously avoid looking at S'kaerik's chair.  

            Now to play a little more with the Company's decisions… Jarlaxle weighed, thoughtfully, possible outcomes from S'kaerik returning in a few months versus a year or two, as he wandered over to his office.

**

            S'kaerik sighed.  "But _Ma…"_

            Her mother, a relatively old Weyr-Cat, smiled and gave her the Look again.  "Dear, your father and I only want to see your good _friends_."  Mother's tail had twitched at the word '_friends', rather unjustly so, S'kaerik thought.  She had omitted the kiss and the hug and, um, such, so she did not see why her mother had to immediately give her that Look.  Her father, on the other hand, was gazing at her with benign interest, and had no real idea as to what his mate was implying.  _

            "I'd have some difficulty extricating him from his library, let alone the Underdark," S'kaerik said dryly.      
            "You should bring all your good friends home for dinner," Mother said, vaguely repeating herself and returning them to the first part of their conversation.  Like humans, Weyr-Cats tended to age mentally continuously as their bodies aged.    

            "We don't eat people anymore," S'kaerik grinned.

            "That wasn't what I meant, dear," Mother said, with a hint of reproach.  "Though, not to criticize you or anything, but have you made any other Cat friends in the Underdark? Making friends is very important…" After her parents had entered late Age as Weyr-Cats considered it, they had mysteriously decided to see S'kaerik and her older brother as perpetual adolescents, and spoke to them as such.  They also treated S'kaerik's fascination with elves with a sort of benevolent bewilderment, and always attempted, rather transparently, to point her towards the Right Direction.  

            Her older brother, H'ienrik, grinned mischievously and cuffed her playfully on the shoulder.  "That's very right, isn't it, Sister?  But everything sounds _very roman__tic."_

            S'kaerik glared at him.  "What does?"

            "I can scarce conceal my mixed feelings regarding the profound plight of my beloved sister," H'ienrik said dramatically.  He did everything dramatically, since it was even his day job – a well-known, highly talented actor.  "Something so great as to surpass species boundaries and the obstacles of age… it will be a ballad to carry down the ages… ouch!"

            S'kaerik had cuffed him back a lot harder, but had blushed furiously at his words before she could prevent herself.  Thankfully, only H'ienrik seemed to notice, and, as he started to laugh in genuine delight, S'kaerik wished that the rule against killing family members did not exist. 


	20. Part 10: Vierna

Part 10

Vierna

            Jarlaxle graduated without honours, having come in third or lower in every single Melee, and without showing exceptional skill.  His time in patrols was also not memorable – by all accounts, he was just another faceless soldier that Masters are hard put to remember.  Carefully, quietly, he dropped out of sight once he finished his stint, unconsidered for Master rank or any honour of the same level.  

            It was several decades until I saw him again.  Life was good – Briza was now fully occupied in the Academy, and only came home once a year. I had made friends with Nalfein, who was a relatively decent individual if one did not touch any of his precious books and if one forgave his occasional tendency to talk as though he were several people at once.  Even Soelisk seemed to become more cheerful, nearing his former self – apparently Saole was doing well.  

            I was now considered a full Master, and chose my schedule by the instruction of Malice so as to allow for long breaks of free time and the remaining work bunched tightly together at the beginning of each week.  The House had just risen in rank due to a raid between Houses above us, and she was in such a good mood that she had allowed me to do whatever I wanted, so I decided to go for a walk in the bazaar.  

            I liked the noise and bustle of the area, of a thousand creatures shouting their business and rubbing shoulders with each other, the dim mage lamps that lit stalls at uneven, messy intervals, showing brightly hued goods and rough canvas roofs barely covering the vast array of different items, the heady, intense smell and sound of mercantile life.  More importantly, I liked the 'open-air', somewhat improvised taverns that sprouted up at certain areas, where the wine was cheap, occasionally imported, and surprisingly good.  Rather guiltily, I was sidling towards one when I felt a quick tap on my shoulder.

            Turning quickly, one hand on the hilt of a sword, I found myself staring at Jarlaxle's unmistakable face - the irritating grin was the same, but there was something sharper and older about his eyes and poise that suggested a sudden maturity.  Signalling in code so as to avoid having to shout above the noise of the crowd, he suggested that he buy me a drink.

            As he signalled to the waiter, I studied his appearance – other than his features, his dress had changed as well.  His cloak was a deep crimson, and he wore rather unhelpful-looking, tight leather armour cut high to expose his flat stomach.  A few pieces of tasteless jewellery decorated his chest, and wrists.  A stupid-looking, plain, purple wide-brimmed hat, knives at his belt, a few wands, tight black leather pants and shiny leather boots completed the look of a flamboyant mercenary-for-hire, one of many in the bazaar.  

            It took me a few seconds to notice the problem my mind was having with his new look – where was his hair?

            As if to emphasize its lack, Jarlaxle raised his hat briefly in greeting, as we sat down at a table.  Under it, his head was as bare and smooth as an onyx ball.  

            "What the _vith _happened to your hair?" I asked bluntly, once we had ordered our drinks.

            Jarlaxle smiled.  "No 'how are you's, sir?"

            "And there is no need to call me 'sir' any longer, Jarlaxle," I pointed out blandly.  "Besides, you always make it sound like an implied insult."

            "I would never dream of insulting you, my friend," Jarlaxle said archly.  "But as to my hair, I cut it."

            "For what? You look like a houseless rogue."

            "Precisely my intention," Jarlaxle said, rather gleefully.  I could feel him getting on my nerves already, a few minutes into normal conversation.

            "How have you been, then?" I asked grudgingly.  After all, he was buying the drinks.  "I have not seen you since you entered Sorcere for the last part of your training."

            "I have been doing exceptionally well, considering," Jarlaxle said, tapping the table idly.  

            "In your 'third way'?"

            "Oh yes," Jarlaxle said mysteriously.  He gave the waiter coins as drinks were put on our table.  "Everything has been quite satisfactory in general."

            "So what is it? I have not heard anything of you since you dropped out of sight after patrols."

            "You would see, in time," Jarlaxle said irritatingly as he took a sip of his wine, and refused to talk about himself for the rest of our meeting.

**

            We met in the bazaar once every week at the same time and at around the same place – the 'open-air' taverns tended to be mobile.  I did not inform Matron Malice of this – and besides, she rather approved of my acquiring what she called 'connections'.  It was not too difficult.  People are inclined to be friendly with a famous – or notorious – drow male individual of known power, and, with some judicious visits to certain drinking pits, I was able to make some friends.  What Matron Malice did not know, was that they were mainly non-drow, and that I was not actually in drinking pits to drink, but to play  _Seo'ur or chess.  Gossip gleaned over such games, however, I dutifully passed back to her to keep her happy and to keep these visits from coming out of my own pocket other than funds. _

            It was during one of these games where I first heard of Bregan D'aerthe – though I did not know, at that time, that it was headed by Jarlaxle himself.  

            "A new mercenary band?" I asked my partner, a nearly painfully-thin human mage called Ertar, curiously.  Humans who were brave (or foolish) enough to try and live in the Underdark on the highly profitable trade routes were also generally smart enough to stay ahead of gossip, in case it had anything to do with them.  

            "Yeah, apparently they've got quite a few joiners," Ertar said, as he squinted at his deck.  "The pay's good, or so I hear, and they don't take just anyone."

            "Ye talking about Bregan D'aerthe?" the duergar Risalk asked in heavily accented Undercommon. 

            "Any other new mercenary bands around, you think?" the other human, a heavily-built fighter whose name I could never remember, asked, with just a hint of gentle sarcasm.

            "They pop up all over the place, like rats," Risalk snorted dismissively.  "How's an honest 'un to keep track of 'em?" 

            "This one's said to have been behind the successful raid on House Isiltre by House Vashek," the fighter said mildly.

            "Lots of Houses use merc bands," Risalk pointed out, "I just find this one funny because ain't no one knows who the leader is."

            "Really?" Ertar blinked.  "Oh, that's true.  I haven't heard who he is, either.  And generally mercenary leaders like exposure."

            "Expose yerself too much and an axe'd take off yer head, is what me dad told me," Risalk said, thick eyebrows beetling as he considered this.  "Maybe that's why merc bands come and go so quickly."

            "It's said that Bregan D'aerthe will be different," the fighter said, a little diffidently – so this wasn't a very strong rumour, then.

            "How so?" I asked, dropping a card on the table.  "Your turn."

            The fighter shrugged.  "Apparently the leader's smart for once, and it's got secret funding, maybe.  No one's really sure.  You want some more wine?"

            "You're just trying to make him drunk so that we'd lose," Ertar said, with mock annoyance.

            "Make a Dark Elf drunk?" the fighter – I think his name started with 'L' – laughed boisterously.  "No thanks, Ertar.  I think that'd take more money than what I have in my pocket."

**

            After a few more decades as a full Master, I was allowed to do the job part-time, and so, seeing the larger blocks of free time that I had, Matron Malice decided to make me the House weapon master as well as the patron – a position that I had already held for quite a while.  True to her word, Soelisk was allowed to go, and he did so without fuss and a quick bow.  There was no point in a long farewell, for all the things that we did have to say to each other, we had already given word to in all the years we had been friends.  How could we compress years of friendship into a few words and make them ring true?

            Under my teaching, Matron Malice noticed to her satisfaction, the House soldiers began to improve very quickly.  I had little patience with explanatory teaching, and as far as I was concerned, anyone who did not listen deserved to be roundly thrashed in a fair fight.  I also had little patience with those who did not follow commands or learn from instruction, and so, after a few 'accidents' (after which I had to endure long lectures from Malice), the soldiers became quick and eager to learn and train by themselves.  

            That suited Matron Malice very well – she was ambitious, and had her eyes set – like all other Matrons – on a place in the ruling council.  Due to the parallel ambitions of those above us, we were slowly rising in rank, and therefore, slowly getting into even greater danger of a raid.  Strengthening defences was an ongoing project between Nalfein and I whenever he managed to pry himself off his books – it was essential that normal and magical defences be carefully integrated.  

            It was around this point in time when weapon masters from other Houses – not very high-up ones, admittedly – began challenging me to one-on-one battles.  I can not even remember their faces now, except that I defeated them relatively easily.  I was still developing and training whenever the Matron, the House, the Academy or other business did not require my attention, using the soldiers as sparring partners.

            Nalfein also attempted a new spell, one that created a doppelganger with basic mental functions and memories, who melted into something that had better be water after five hours.  He first tried out the spell on me – before giving me a full brief of what he _was going to do – but the doppelganger actually turned out to be good training material.  Since the soldiers were not my match, and neither were the weapon masters, fighting myself seemed to be a better alternative. _

            Although there were a few false starts, Nalfein eventually perfected the doppelganger to just have all my fighting experience, without the messy little memories that were unrelated to it.  He created the creature whenever I felt as though I had learnt something new about the Dance.  However, after a few times where I was nearly killed by it – either counters had failed in practice, or new moves turned out to be flawed – Matron Malice nearly outlawed it.         

            "What if you die?" she demanded furiously, after a particularly close shave when I had only been saved after Nalfein had hurriedly blasted the thing across the room.  Thankfully, the doppelganger had little of the magic resistance of a real Drow.  As if to cover up her anxiety and relief, she added, "It takes a lot of healing magic each time to get you back on your feet."

            "Find another weapon master?" I suggested playfully, trying to ignore the residual pain that lingered even after a healing.  "Several soldiers are showing promise, _malla Ilharess."_

            Malice nearly growled.  "None are as good as you are, and you know it.  My stupid son does not seem to recognize this fact."

            "Actually, Nalfein agrees with me that this is the only way to test myself adequately, _malla Ilharess," I said as diffidently as possible._

            "You'd test yourself to death if you continue with this… this foolishness!" Matron Malice snarled, her voice suddenly rising again.  I winced.  "Fight with your soldiers!"

            "But they cannot see flaws as quickly in counters…"

            "Can't _you_ see those in theory?" Malice cut in irritably, "Must you kill yourself to find out?"

            "Flaws stand out more obviously in a real fight than…"

            Malice's lip trembled, signalling that she was changing tack to a more underhanded version of getting her way.  "Did you even consider how _I_ feel each time you turn up bloody and dying?"

            "Er…" 

            "Did you know how much I worry every time you and Nalfein sneak off somewhere to conduct your foolish experiments?" her voice wavered and broke with magnificent dramatic aptitude at the end of the sentence.  Helplessly, I got off the bed and knelt at her feet.

            "_Malla Ilharess…"_

            "Am I so unimportant in your eyes that perfecting your skill comes above what I think about this?"

            "_Please listen to me…" _

            There was, unfortunately, no stopping her once she got into stride.  I never really understood where she learnt this skill from, where her rhetoric got worse and worse in steady progression until I gave in.  I always gave in, then – because I had no defences against her, and she knew it.  

            In the end, we compromised – the weapons of the doppelganger were insubstantial.  This would inevitably lower my guard against it, but at least Malice did not have to worry about the loss of her weapon master. 

**

            Vierna was born shortly after Bregan D'aerthe did something – I cannot really remember what – to make it into a high-profile mercenary group.  By that time, Jarlaxle revealed himself as the master of the band, and enough time had passed such that no one remembered that he had been the mediocre student at the Academy.  As far as they were concerned, he had turned up out of nowhere.

            The both of us were celebrating with a drink in one of the better drinking pits, a few days after the birth, when Matron Malice had firmly established that I was not to hover around the child at all times, because I had duties to do, and besides, she found it mildly embarrassing that Vierna seemed to find my presence inexplicably amusing and burbled happily every time I leant over the cradle.

            As this drinking pit held more dark elves than non-drow, we spoke in a mixture of duergar and Undercommon.  Jarlaxle's appearance had the added, even stupider-looking frill of three diatryma feathers that kept dropping over his line of vision.  I wondered vaguely if his sense of taste had been surgically removed.

            "So, what does your daughter look like?" Jarlaxle asked, after we were into our second bottle.

            I grinned.  "I fell in love with her once I was allowed to see her."

            "Does Malice know?"

            "Probably," I shrugged.

            "Best not to let it show too much," Jarlaxle warned me good-naturedly.  "Females tend to get possessive."

            "Even if I love them equally?" I protested.

            "Especially so," Jarlaxle said, a little patronisingly, as if speaking to a retarded individual.

            "But Vierna is _her_ daughter too…"

            "And therefore, in her eyes, a potential successor, probably due to violent means," Jarlaxle pointed out.  "Malice was also a second daughter, remember.  And it is obvious that after so many years of living with one, you _still have not learnt anything about females."_

            "She's beautiful," I said mildly.  After a few glasses, my train of conversation tends to slip up a little.

            "Malice, or your daughter?" Jarlaxle grinned.

            "Both.  Malice has always been beautiful, and Vierna looks like a little angel.  Has her mother's eyes."

            "Ah? Introduce her to me in about eighteen years, then," Jarlaxle said, and laughed at my sudden glare.  "Only joking."

            "You had better be," I growled, refilling my glass and deciding to change the subject.  "Is Bregan D'aerthe still funded by Baenre?"

            "No, we're independent now – at least financially," Jarlaxle smiled.  "Still, our connection to Baenre is not general knowledge."

            "Keep it that way," I suggested, rather unnecessarily.  Jarlaxle probably knew all that was best for Bregan D'aerthe.  "And you are nearing your vision."

            "Well, I try to make good use of my second chance at life, since I'm officially dead in the previous one," Jarlaxle grinned.  "At least my Matron is happy.  You had better watch _yours _carefully."

**

            As Jarlaxle intimated, Malice's mood improved considerably once I started ostensibly paying much more attention to her than to Vierna.  As it was, I could only rather secretly play with the child when the Matron was not around and when I had bribed the spies.  I was also careful to time these visits whenever Malice was deeply caught up in House or religious matters, so I could explain that when I could not be with her, then at least our daughter was a physical reminder of her. 

            Other than a distressing tendency to pull my hair and grin impishly whenever I was with her, Vierna was a delightful child, and stayed that way even when she was growing up.  To Malice's consternation, the first word she could pronounce was the abbreviation of my name – 'Zak' – though with some cautious and patient coaching I made sure that the next words she did say were '_malla Ilharess_'.   It still took a lot of effort to smooth down her ruffled feathers.  I did not really understand Malice's apparent insecurity about my feelings for her.  As far as I was concerned, my love for her was unaffected by the birth of Vierna – if anything, it grew stronger.  

**

            Being quick and intelligent, Vierna mastered the language quickly, and learnt how to read and write without much fuss – once she got over her tendency to throw her pen across the room in frustration whenever she could not understand something or did not want to read whatever was put in front of her.  Even a beating from the wean mother did not reduce her mulish will.  Nonplussed, Malice accused me of giving her my impatience and my stubborn dislike of reading unless absolutely necessary, and decided to make it my problem, since just about the only person Vierna seemed to listen attentively to other than Malice herself was me, and Malice was too busy at that point in time to play wean mother.  If I recall, the instruction ran something like: Get Vierna to like reading religious books, Or Else.

            As in most matters regarding something I personally do not approve of, I decided to delegate.

            "Where are we going?" Vierna asked, with the curious, neat pronunciation of someone who is as yet relatively new to words.  She tailed behind me, dressed in small robes, embroidered around the hems.  Female children are treated like little princesses.  It had taken some persuasion to get her to stop using the word _Ilharn to call me, at least when we were probably not alone.  _

            "To meet your brother," I said.  The solution had come to me only after some thought.  Books were Nalfein's territory, swords were mine.  This was something to do with books, therefore, Nalfein's problem by default. 

            "Who?"

            "You have not seen him before?" I asked in some surprise, and then remembered that Nalfein rather lazily, in my opinion, used portals to get anywhere – generally, between the House Library, Sorcere's Library, and his room – and sometimes, the bazaar, but that was about it.  Considering how much effort it took to make and maintain permanent key-portals to anything, I wondered why he did not just choose to walk.

            "No, if not I would not _ask_." Vierna glared at me as ferociously as a small girl with a floppy fringe could.  Unlike her mother, however, her stare had the piercing quality of a fluffy pillow.  

            "Forgive me for my inability to keep up with you, princess," I said dryly.  Vierna stuck out her tongue. "And _that is a childish way of making a statement."_

            "Don't care," Vierna muttered.  "I _am a child, so I'm entitled."_

            "Oh? And do I recall you telling me yesterday to treat you like a 'grown up'?"

            Vierna, at a loss for words, then attempted, without success, to intensify her glare.  "You're making fun of me again," she said accusingly.

            "And would I do that, princess?"

            "You _always_ do that," she complained.  "_Ilharess_ said you weren't _allowed_.  So there.  But you never listen to her, so why do you always tell _me to listen to her if you don't listen to her and you know that she knows?"  Vierna had not fully grasped the idea of using simple sentences to prevent the other side from having to pause to unravel her words. _

            "I can make it up to her later," I smirked.  

            "How?" Vierna asked curiously, despite her bristling indignation at my apparent privileges.

            "I always have something she wants." Myself, generally.

            "Wow," Vierna decided, after a pause.  Awe was not something I was expecting as a reaction, so I nearly passed the library in my confusion.  

            Nalfein looked at Vierna in surprise when we entered.  He was seated at a desk, reading the inevitable book, and with some hesitation, rose and bowed.  "Greetings, sister."

            "Greetings, er…" Vierna looked up helplessly at me, and then whispered furiously, "Do I say 'brother' or call him by name?"

            Nalfein chuckled, and Vierna blushed deeply in the infrared when she realized that he had heard her.  "Either is fine, little sister."

            "I'm _not_ little," Vierna said immediately, planting her small hands on her hips. 

            Nalfein raised an eyebrow and glanced at me questioningly.  I shrugged.  "Matron Malice wishes Vierna to learn how to like reading."  I did not say that Malice had given _me the task.  The mage sighed, not noticing the phrasing.  "Any particular books?"_

            "The religious ones."

            Vierna grimaced.  "I don't see why I have to learn how _like_ reading religious books."

            "They are quite interesting really," Nalfein said, apparently surprised, as if Vierna had just asked why it was necessary to breathe.  "I will get you one of the better ones…"

            Without uttering a spell, and without any particular effort on his part, a book floated out from the shelves and drifted in front of Vierna, whose eyes had widened into small, astonished circles.  Gingerly, she took the book, as if concerned that it would not budge from its midair position, then immediately turned her attention to Nalfein, demanding, "How did you do that?"

            "Magic," Nalfein said, then seemed to think of something.  "If you read something, I can check if you have the ability."

            "Really?" 

            Nalfein and I exchanged winks when Vierna climbed onto a chair and opened the book.  Before I exited the room, my last glance at Vierna held her in a cross-legged slouch against the chair, in part profile against the light, little fingers turning the pages of a book nearly half her size, her jaw set in determination as if fighting a physical war.  At that moment, it seemed, she replaced the other child in my thoughts – the despairing, wounded one that I had failed, as if somehow the guilt had been absolved and I had been given, like Jarlaxle, a second chance. 


	21. Intersection

Author's Note: fluff warning, beware.  Mwahahaha.  

Intersection

            Half a year, and she still missed Nalfei… that is to say, the _Underdark, not the mage.  Definitely not the handsome, ancient dark elf with the preoccupied, absent gaze and the magnificent mane of hair.  Nothing to do with him at all.  Really._

            S'kaerik let out a sigh as she stared at the tiled ceiling in the airy rooms provided in Candlekeep University, and wished she believed it.  Word had been occasionally sent from Menzoberranzan dwarves to say that they were working on her case, but it would take some 'time'.  Nothing from Jarlaxle or Nalfei… nothing from Jarlaxle, that is, but that was hardly surprising – she doubted that the mercenary leader had anything really important to say to her.  

            That was a little depressing, but at least it wasn't as bad as sleeping.  S'kaerik had started dreaming of Nalfein a week or so after she had left Sshamath, and since she knew that dreams generally reflected subconscious preoccupation, this was somewhat disturbing.  Especially since the dreams were, in general, none-too-innocent.  Other than that, it had been a pretty good half year – the translations had sold well, oddly enough, and she had managed to extend her book collection to a few old, pre-printing handwritten and illustrated tomes from her suppliers that she had been aching to get for years.  

Her brother H'ienrik had finally gotten mated to Nish'rik, even though Mother did not really approve, it _was_ the age of freedom.  Males could get mated to males if they wanted to, though Mother bemoaned the lack of direct grandchildren, and then shot S'kaerik a stern look, as if to say the duty now fell to _her, which was unfair, and besides, when she was a youngling she had a crush on Nish'rik.  But they were happy together, so that was fine… idly, she wondered what Nalfein would think of that, and fielded the thought just in time.  Not good.  _

Sleep was important.  Tomorrow she had to attend some strange discussion about the Underdark, and it was necessary to stay awake during the meeting.  It was undignified to take naps when one was still young, anyway… 

            With an irritated growl, S'kaerik rolled off the bed and dressed, deciding to go for a quick walk around the elegant, walled-in garden of Candlekeep University.  Perhaps the crisp, cold night air would pull in the soothing arms of sleep – it generally did so whenever she tried it, which was more and more often.  

            Candlekeep University gardens were kept neat and landscaped in an attempt to recreate the romance of wilderness without the 'wild'.  None of the animals tried to eat each other, the plants were trimmed and immaculate, tastefully placed to complement the colours of their surroundings.  Even the ponds were carefully asymmetrical, and the swans floated on it like living statues that, at night, shot S'kaerik accusing looks of beady-eyed suspicion from their nests in the reeds.  Cats were cats, as far as they were concerned, even though they looked human.

            S'kaerik set off on an easy jog down the stone path, the fresh night air walled away from the smells of modern Candlekeep City – still considered a small, university city compared to the large metropolises of Baldur's Gate and Waterdeep, but now housing enough people to make certain streets smell as though they were not only in pressing need of a sewage system, but also possibly a very large fire.  

            Nocturnal birds sang discreetly at even intervals from the trees, having been caged there.  S'kaerik found the metaphorical quality of Candlekeep's 'wilderness' garden highly amusing, from the specially moss-grown slate flagstones that she loped on, to the ivy-covered broken statues rising occasionally out of the bushes like affronted natives, to the little stone benches under judicious spots of shade, perfect for picnics and… there was someone on that bench close to her left.

            S'kaerik slowed down, curious.  In all the times she had taken a nightly jog in the gardens all she had met were a few students sneaking off over to the gates in search of entertainment in the city outside.  They generally did not linger inside the gardens, especially if they saw anyone coming…

            Tail twitching inquisitively, she wandered over, politely making enough noise such that the person could hear her approach.  She was relatively sure that she could handle intruders, or at least run like hell for help… as she couldn't smell any firearms on him.  The figure stood up as she got close, and the scent was so familiar that she drew in a sharp intake of breath.  Moonlight sleeted off bone-white hair, as Nalfein faded out of the shadows from the trees.

            "What are you doing here?" S'kaerik hissed quietly in shock – that he had left his _library, let alone the Underdark… She caught his arm, solid under the sleeves rough with arcane embroidery.  Nalfein seemed rather distant, his expression unreadable and traced with shadows, but S'kaerik was far too stunned to consider the implications as she embraced him fiercely, rubbing her cheek against his firm chest.  "Gods, I __missed you," she whispered.  _

            Nalfein gingerly enfolded her with his arms, stiffly, as if in affronted dignity, and S'kaerik pulled back guiltily, about to apologize, then was surprised again when he cupped her face in both slender hands and kissed her hungrily on the lips, tongue gently but insistently entering her mouth to deepen the gesture.  S'kaerik slid her arms up around his neck and gasped "My room," when he broke the kiss for air.  

Nalfein grinned, and kissed her again, this time more slowly, and the air seemed to change abruptly in smell and texture to the cleaner tones of her room.  Blinking, she pushed him off, but let his stroking hands encircle her waist.  "Again… what are you doing here?"

"I was going to ask you to come back to Sshamath with me," Nalfein said, then smiled wickedly as wandering hands teased a gasp from the Weyr-Cat, "But something must have possessed me.  And we can do this -" S'kaerik moaned at his touch, "without fear of interruption in my pocket plane."

"Tempting as that is, I have a lot of things I have to do first… and I need to get permission to leave." S'kaerik said, grabbing his hands and jerking them away from her.  "The dwarves said it won't be very much longer…"

            "_I can't wait much longer," Nalfein growled.  _

            "Mrr.  Well, _you_ didn't even go and see me off at the platform," S'kaerik said accusingly, between rasping licks at his neck, playfully pulling his hands behind his back.

            "Because _you_ did not seem inclined to wish to visit after you had your books," Nalfein retorted, arching slightly as she found the clasps to his robes and pulled the top half open to move the ministrations of her tongue downwards.  "Aah…"

            "I was busy, and _you_ weren't very friendly when you gave them to me," S'kaerik replied, slightly irked at the idea that Nalfein had thought it was fundamentally _her fault.  _

            Nalfein sighed, frowning as he realized, when he tried to move his hands, that a Weyr-Cat's strength is well-hidden in their lithe frames.  "Can we just forget about that?"

            "No," S'kaerik said mischievously, pushing him onto the bed and shifting his arms so she held them by his wrists over his head.  "But you can try and convince me."

**

            S'kaerik looked out of the train window to hide her grin.  They were only a day into the train ride, and Nalfein had already become extremely skittish, like a cat in a dog pound, never having been so long away from his books for centuries.  Ostensibly, he was reading the catalogue she had gotten for him, but whenever she looked away she could feel his accusing stare on the back of her neck.  She was the one who'd refused to teleport, after all, because S'kaerik rather liked trains, and she wanted to stop over in Menzoberranzan briefly to thank the dwarves there.  The ride back was in one of the new luxury trains for the tourists, and they had a first-class room…

            She didn't really know why he was complaining, because she had made it quite clear that if he wanted to, Nalfein could go back to his library first, by himself.  That had stalled quite a few of his protests, and he had resorted to sulking.  

            The last few days had actually been quite fun.  Nalfein's presence had caused quite some consternation in Candlekeep, and, though he had been allowed into the Library at S'kaerik's request, he was escorted by a suspicious train of some of the University staff, whom he had surprised by speaking Common and not trying to kill anything.  After that he took her to Baldur's Gate to arrange her things, when word coincidentally – or perhaps not – arrived that she had a seat in the _Silver Falcon_ back to the Underdark at the earliest date, and a job waiting in Sshamath, something that she would be briefed on fully when she reached there, but probably involved Nalfein's library.

            From the carefully immobile expression of Nalfein's face when she told him this, she knew that he probably had something to do with it.

            "I still think we should have used magic," Nalfein muttered.  "We would be…"

            "Back earlier, I know," S'kaerik turned her gaze back to him.  "But does it matter? You'd live forever anyway.  What is a week or so to you?"

            Nalfein glared at her.  "It means less to me than it does for you."

            "I _like_ trains," S'kaerik grinned impishly as Nalfein scowled.  "Remember?"

            "I cannot imagine why," Nalfein said snappishly.  

            "Well, you spend most of your life in a room less luxurious than this one, and with about the same amount or less of standing space," S'kaerik pointed out.

            "My room had books," Nalfein said simply.

            "Well, you were the one who chose to leave them."

            "Because I did not think I would be leaving them for very long."

            "You have books _now_," S'kaerik pointed out.  They had brought along quite a bit of her personal collection, as well as books donated from the Five and their publishing companies.  

            Nalfein muttered something darkly in the drow tongue, and looked so adorable in his frustration that S'kaerik could not resist walking over to his couch and nipping his neck.  "Bed?" he asked, a little breathlessly after a while, when she ensconced herself on his lap.  

            S'kaerik chuckled.  "I'm still a bit surprised that you like me this way.  After all… we're not even of the same species…"

            "That is probably part of the reason," Nalfein replied, moaning as she kissed the hollow at his neck.  "And I like you in _many ways…"_

            "Really."

            "Aah… Bed?"

            "If you insist."

**

            "So how was your return to the Surface?" Jarlaxle asked politely.  S'kaerik had kept her rooms in Sshamath instead of moving in with Nalfein, because it was near-impossible to reach her if she decided to stay in his pocket plane.  Grumbling on the mage's part had not accomplished anything, and he had given up.       

            "It was restful… until Nalfein showed up," S'kaerik smiled at the memory, and then shot a look at Jarlaxle.  "Did _you_ have anything to do with it?"

            "Me, Lady Cat?"

            "Yes, you… I'm quite sure you had something to do with it.  What did you say to him? I don't think Nalfein would have left his library without a lot of instigation…"

            "I did not say anything of the sort to him, Lady Cat," Jarlaxle said mildly, "But I did not tell him that it was nearly confirmed that you were supposed to come back, so I assume he grew tired of waiting."

            "But he's been alone for centuries…"

            "So perhaps he does not wish to be alone any longer," Jarlaxle smiled.  

            S'kaerik shrugged.  "Well, if he does not tire of my company all I can do is stay with him for two centuries maximum."

            "We shall see, Lady Cat," Jarlaxle said mysteriously. 

            "What?"

            "Just speculation on my part," the mercenary said irritatingly.  "And I heard that you saw Zaknafein?"

            "Oh yes," S'kaerik said, forgetting about the 'speculation' in the rush of recollection.  "He was _very handsome."_

            "There has to be some reason why Malice put up with him for so long," Jarlaxle grinned.  "Zaknafein always _has to have his own way, and so does Malice.  I've always thought they were an extremely incompatible couple, though I'd thought that it would have continued to work out relatively peacefully if they never had children."_

            "Well, they broke up.  Violently."

            "They never really did," Jarlaxle corrected, thoughtfully.  "He was always in love with her, even after that ugly incident with Vierna, and the somewhat less ugly parallel involving Drizzt."

            "How did you know?"

            "I believe he would not have given his life so easily in sacrifice for his son, no matter how Drizzt's memoirs make him out to be.  I have known him for a large proportion of his life, most of which revolved around his Matron, even after she rejected and humiliated him.  He died the first time mainly because he saw that Malice really wanted him to die, and he let her kill him because life, for him, already had lost all its appeal once he understood her wish."

            "Then he came back the second time because she was the one who called him."

            "He could have refused?" S'kaerik frowned.  "I thought it was easy to call back spirits."

            "I understand that if one enters the Blessed Realms, divine magic that is evil in nature cannot pull one back into a state of undeath, as the good-aligned Gods guard the Blessed Realms with their power.  So to return – and as Zin-Carla, there must have been a very good reason."

            "But he killed himself…"

            "Because he saw that he was about to fulfil his function, after which he would have accomplished nothing other than the death of his son, because Zin-Carlas are sacrificed again after they finish their hunt," Jarlaxle said solemnly.  "And he could see that his presence was slowly killing his beloved."

            "This might sound like an overly sentimental question… but from your judgement, did Malice love him?"

            Jarlaxle smiled.  "In her own fashion, I believe so, yes – because I believe that if she did not love him, she would not have been able to hurt him as much as she did.  He could never see that love is an emotion whose meaning is shaped anew by each individual – or perhaps he did not want to see.  Perhaps he wanted her to love him the same way he did her."  The mercenary inspected his gloves.  "Malice was Zaknafein's biggest blind spot.  If he had treated her more like a Matron, it is quite likely that he would not have died that way.  He never knew how to handle the idea of her being jealous of him loving his children."  A quick smile.  "Which shows you that four hundred years can only layer cynicism over stubbornness, and not replace it."

            "Did _you_ have blind spots?" S'kaerik grinned.

            "Never, Lady Cat," Jarlaxle said, with mock indignation.  "The very idea!"

            "You gave up Bregan D'aerthe once…"

            "Because I was bored, and I wanted to look at the Surface."

            "And your conclusion…?"

            "That except for certain aspects it is so akin to the Underdark that there is little point in my preferring to stay in either based on anything other than profit." Jarlaxle smiled.  "The same prejudice, the same fears, desires, stupidity, bloodshed and hatred just exist in different mundane levels in both places.  My assassin friend did not agree with me, so I left him to his devices in Calimport after a few years.  He said my presence was beginning to make him even more cynical than normal."

            "I wonder why," S'kaerik said mischievously.

            "Are you teasing me, Lady Cat?"

            "No, of course not," S'kaerik replied, mimicking his tone.  "I would never dream of doing that."

            "Good," Jarlaxle grinned.  "I might die of hurt if you did so."

            "I might die right now if I have to continue on this train of conversation," S'kaerik said dryly.

            "You had better not, Lady Cat.  If anything, it would be hell to explain to Nalfein."  Jarlaxle winked at her.  "He has become quite possessive."

            "But I don't let him order me around…"

            "Which I believe might be part of his problem," Jarlaxle said, and laughed at S'kaerik's expression.  "Suffice to say, he has never met anyone like you."

            "Well, I certainly hope he doesn't lose interest."

            "I have never seen him leave the library for anything other than summons by Mage Lord councils, so I doubt he would, Lady Cat.  Very well done."

            "Oh yes, I heard you won your bet," S'kaerik grinned.  "Though Nalfein was reluctant to disclose its nature."

            "Thanks to you, Lady Cat – I was all but despairing of finding anyone who could fulfil all the conditions of the bet."

            "But you won."

            "I always win, Lady Cat," Jarlaxle said, tipping his hat.  "That is why it is always amusing.  But I would like to thank you again for helping Nalfein - he looks more alive now than I have ever seen him.  Give him a year or so and he might even learn how to speak properly automatically.  I was afraid that he would turn into one of the many pieces of furniture in his pocket plane."

            "Did you steal anything when he let you into the other rooms?" S'kaerik grinned.

            "Of _course_ not," Jarlaxle said, the mock indignation returning to his expressive voice.  

            "Somehow, I don't believe you."


	22. Afterword

Afterword

            "I was hoping you had forgotten," Zaknafein said irritably.

            The Author smirked.  "Well, it's my first long 'fic in a… very long time, so I decided to give you the honour of being in the afterword instead of dragging S'kaerik and Nalfein into it as I had originally planned.  Aren't you proud?"

            He sighed.  "A year of life does not seem to have added much to your mental capacity, it seems."

            "Like a few decades didn't add much to _your_ 'mental capacity'," the Author retorted.  "All that business with Drizzt…"

            "He was my son," Zaknafein said defensively.

            "If I had him as _my_ son, I'd have added infanticide to my crimes.  And you could have killed him nicely over that acid pit fight.  I mean, don't you irrationally like being an undefeatable champion?"

            "Irrationally?"

            "It's something you males seem to take very seriously. In your case, it's fighting, here, it's being top in games.  Just look in Battle.net."

            "I have no idea what you are talking about," Zaknafein said flatly.  "And if you intend to make small talk with me then I'm going to sleep."

            "Go on," the Author said, with an evil smirk.  "I'm within reach of my bookshelf."

            Zaknafein rubbed the space between his eyes.  "All right, all right.  I will comment."

            "And about time, too."

            "Why did you put Intersections between Parts?"

            "Well, I wanted at first to merge the timelines together – hence all the mention about time machines in the first few Intersections – but decided it'd be far too stupid, so I settled for this instead.  Was going to reflect the 'second chance' with Nalfein – that is to say, S'kaerik having given him another way to live… but decided that ending the last Intersection the same way as the last Part would be too trite.  Are you awake?"

            Zaknafein woke up abruptly and caught 'The Concise Oxford Dictionary', all hardcovered 1,452 pages of it as it hurtled towards him, and set it down on the desk, unperturbed.  "Fine, fine.  At least you did not integrate the idea of having me reappear in the Intersections."

            "Well yes, because I suddenly decided to write Nalfein in instead of you.  After all, the next 'fic is still going to be about you…"

            "Are you really going to write the serious 'slash' pairing?" In the distastefully fastidious way Zaknafein dropped the inverted commas over the word 'slash', one could easily guess at his feelings towards the idea.

            "Maybe, if no one bribes me."

            "And this bribe would be…?"

            "Paying for my livejournal would be nice," the Author smirked.  "But no one's going to spend US$25 on me, so maybe I'd just write it.  Or maybe not.  I haven't decided which one would be more fun."

            Zaknafein shuddered.  "Don't."

            "Then you could convince me that you don't have homosexual tendencies," the Author said, the smirk widening.

            "Are you concealing a 'Mary Sue' inside your Afterword?" Zaknafein asked suspiciously, though he carefully edged away from the Author.

            "Oh, don't worry," the Author said, with a dismissive wave.  "I'm currently playing with someone else."

            "That green-haired young human with three katanas I saw earlier on the way up?"

            "Eheh.  Did he try to challenge you?"

            "Yes… something about wanting to be the top swordsman, or something." Zaknafein shrugged philosophically.  "There seems to be a lot of strange people around here lately.  When was the last time you did any housekeeping?"

            "Um… anyway, about Zoro – the human – don't fight him, okay? Chances are, you both will react in the same way if either of you lose.  You males and your preoccupation with winning.  In any case, return to the topic… Jarlaxle, or Entreri?"

            "What?"

            "If I make a serious slash pairing, would you rather be with Jarlaxle or Entreri? I mean, I threatened to make it Entreri, but writing Jarlaxle is great fun too.  Or do you want both at once?"

            Zaknafein shot her a Look that said quite plainly that he'd rather be tortured slowly in the Abyssal Plane than have to partake in this conversation.

            "Well, both are cute," the Author grinned wickedly.  "I guess it depends on whether you like muscles or…"

            "Must we do this?" Zaknafein asked plaintively.


End file.
